Author: Sara Palmer

  • On (Not) Bashing Babies

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    On (Not) Bashing Babies

    Psalm 137

    Brent A. Strawn

    Duke Divinity School, Durham, North Carolina

    I make my living teaching the Old Testament. Contrary to popular opinion, let me assure you that it’s not always easy! One very real problem I face in my line of work is the bad rap the Old Testament often gets. As you might know, a lot of people don’t like the Old Testament, and I’m talking about good, well-meaning Christian folks—seminary students even—and so I often have to fight uphill in, say, a sermon, or an adult education class, or just at a dinner party when the problem of the Old Testament comes up. “What do you do for a living, Brent?” “Me? Oh, I teach Old Testament.” And then the ear dump! Yes, a lot of people have problems with the Old Testament. Even if they don’t know chapter and verse (and I feel compelled to point out that they rarely do!), they are nevertheless aware of the big issues, the big problems that live in the Old Testa­ ment. Things like God waking up on the wrong side of the bed, for like, well…it seems like forever. Since this is a real occupational hazard, I’ve decided to address it directly, tak­ ing these difficult texts head on, in order to see what might be done with them. I just decided that the other day! And so here we are, with my newfound resolve, and here we come to one of the most famous of the difficult parts of the Old Testament—it may even be president of the club: Psalm 137.

    Alongside Babylon’s streams, there we sat down, crying because we remembered Zion. We hung our lyres up in the trees there because that’s where our captors asked us to sing; our tormentors requested songs of joy: “Sing us a song about Zion!” they said. But how could we possibly sing the LORD’S song on foreign soil? Jerusalem! If I forget you, let my right hand wither! Let my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth if I don’t remember you, if I don’t make Jerusalem my greatest joy.

    LORD, remember what the Edomites did on Jerusalem’s dark day: “Rip it down, rip it down! All the way to its foundations!” they yelled. Daughter Babylon, you destroyer, a blessing be on the one who pays you back the very deed you did to us! A blessing be on the one who seizes your children and smashes them against the rock! (CEB adjusted*)

    Psalm 137 (especially verses 1-6): Famous Upon reading that text in worship, it is customary to say, “The Word of God for the People of God. Thanks be to God.” And I believe Psalm 137 really is the Word


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    of God for the People of God, but it’s not an easy word, is it? The real Word of God rarely is. It would take time to say all that needs to be said to get this psalm said right—more time than I have right now. Still, to begin with, we might note that, contrary to what someone might expect, this is actually a very famous psalm. Psalm 137 has inspired many hymns, poems, and songs. Well, the hist six verses of the psalm, to be precise. These verses are quite famous. They are the ones that are full of grief over destroyed Jerusalem, full of distress over the exile to Babylon, because that’s where the psalmist is, “alongside Babylon’s streams,” sitting there, weeping there, refusing to sing for the Babylonian sergeant who can’t wait to hear another tune about good ole’ Zion—the Zion that he and his platoon left a smoldering pile of rubble. Yes, Psalm 137 is a famous psalm, if for no other reason than the fact that it af­ fords unique insight into the experience of 587 BC, the destruction of Jerusalem. In fact, it may be the only psalm in the entire Psalter that we can date with any degree of certainty, because it mentions that event explicitly. But let’s be clear about something: Psalm 137 isn’t a history lesson; it’s a lesson in prayer. It’s not found now, in the Psalter, to teach us about 587; it’s here, now, in the Psalter, to teach us how to pray.

    Psalm 137 (especially vv. 7-9): Infamous The prayer part of the psalm begins in earnest in v. 7, when God is directly ad­ dressed: “Remember, O LORD,” how the Edomites cheered Babylon on. “Tear Jeru­ salem down, all the way down to bedrock!” is what they shouted. And mentioning that destruction leads the psalmist directly to Babylon and to that brutal verse about bashing babies against rocks. These last three verses, the prayer part proper, are why Psalm 137 is not only famous but infamous. I mean, it is one thing to argue with God, as so many psalms do, but this sort of talk about the psalmist’s enemies is on a completely different level. It seems downright barbaric, uncivilized, un-Christian. If we are honest, it sounds like hate speech. Just listen to v. 9 again: “A blessing [be] on the one who seizes your children and smashes them against the rock! ” That’s one doozy of a last line. For many people it encapsulates what they deem wrong with the Old Testament if not the entire Bible: in a word, violence—especially of the divine, religious, or sacred variety. “How could Holy Scripture encourage people to bash babies’ heads against rocks?” some people ask and you might have asked the very same thing! That’s a very good question, but a wrong-headed one in this specific case, because Holy Scripture does nothing of the sort here. To read the Bible well requires reading it with the greatest of care, and while the final three verses of Psalm 137 are disturb­ ing, they most definitely do not tell people to go bash babies. There is no command here, no imperative, just a sentiment—a very strong sentiment, to be sure, but just a sentiment nevertheless—a sentiment uttered against those ultimately responsible for the trauma of exile, for the destruction of Jerusalem, and for the death of so many of the psalmist’s loved-ones: Babylon, here called “the Destroyer. ” Edom’s role in 587 was bad enough, but Babylon was the master architect of the psalmist’s pain, and so he escalates his rhetoric accordingly. But what he definitely does not do is command anyone to bash Babylonian babies. The psalm says only that if (or when) such a thing might happen, that action would be blessed.


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    Well, that’s bad enough isn’t it? “Blessed” sounds like religious language, after all—“have a blessed day!” But that impression is more apparent than real. For one thing, the psalmist nowhere mentions God in this final, brutal verse. God is not said to be the one who will bash Babylonian babies. Neither does the psalm indicate that the agent of this gruesome vengeance will be blessed by God. The psalmist could have said those things, but the psalmist didn’t say those things. That’s important. Instead, there is only a rather impersonal construction, “blessed is the one” who performs the payback. Another reason why “blessed” in this verse isn’t necessarily religious language is because that’s neither the only nor even the best translation of the underlying Hebrew term.1 But if Psalm 137 isn’t a history lesson, neither is it an exercise in translation theory. It’s an exercise in prayer—hard, gritty prayer. And here’s the ultimate point: if we read slowly, carefully, theologically, existentially—pausing long enough to put an end to our defense mechanisms—if we can do that, I think we begin to see that Psalm 137, no less than any other psalm, is how the saints pray sometimes.

    Psalm 137 and/as Prayer That’s what this psalm is, after all: just a prayer. Not Torah from Mt. Sinai, not moral exhortation from St. Paul, not a terrorist how-to manual. Just a grief-stricken, trauma-induced, sorrow-wracked prayer to God. And we can understand that, can’t we? We know similar grief, we are acquainted with similar trauma. It may not be as large-scale as Jerusalem’s decimation or Judah’s forced resettlement, but we know how we feel about the atrocities that happen every single day in our world, in our own neighborhoods, on our television sets (sometimes live), even in our own churches. The psalmist is so distraught by all she has experienced that she wishes a curse on herself if she forgets any of it. Which means, of course, that she intends to never, ever forget even a bit of it. When we remember our own grief, our own trauma, we get that, don’t we? And so we also can understand how a psalmist who refuses to forget her beloved Jerusalem also cannot forget its devastation. The psalmist cursed herself should she forget any of that, but now prays to God about those responsible for it. “Remember them… and remember that! Don’t forget that, Lord!” Which means, of course, that the psalmist wants God to do something about it, preferably immediately. We understand that, too, don’t we? All of us have had dark days. And we know people who have had even darker ones—people who cannot forget, people who mustn’t forget, people who are praying hard, gritty prayers for things to get set straight again. We may not always like how such people pray, how strongly their sentiments run, but then again, here is Psalm 137, part of God’s Holy Word, telling us that such feelings, such prayers, are not unknown among God’s saints. In truth, such feelings and prayers are widespread, even among God’s saints. Proof of that isn’t found only in Psalm 137 but all over the Psalter. And Job. And elsewhere. In the New Testament, it’s even found in heaven. In Revelation 6, when the fifth seal is opened, all the martyrs cry from under God’s altar in heaven. These are the ones who had been slaughtered on account of the word of God and the wit­ ness they had given. They cried out with a loud voice, “Holy and true Master, how long will you wait before you pass judgment? How long before you require justice for our blood, which was shed by those who live on earth?” (Rev 6:9b-10; CEB)


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    Did you hear that? Those are the saints—the very martyrs themselves! — praying for the very same thing the psalmist prays for in Psalm 137: for justice. God’s justice against God’s enemies who have wronged God’s people. Two wrongs don’t make a right, sure, but praying for God’s justice is never wrong. According to Scripture, justice is among the most sublime of our Lord’s qualities. That’s why the saints—both Old and New Testament varieties, both back then and right up to this very day—pray for payback. If we are honest, we understand that or at least can begin to get our minds around it. Now don’t hear me wrong: that doesn’t answer every question we have about Psalm 137, but it helps us begin to grasp why it is in our Bibles and why it should be in our Bibles. It should be in our Bibles because it teaches us how to pray. Psalm 137, no less than Psalm 22 or 23 or any other, is how God’s people pray sometimes. They pray in pain. They pray in anger. They pray weeping. They pray traumatized. They pray because… well, really, what else could they possibly do? They pray to God because no one else in this world can help. They pray to God because no one else in this world will help. They pray to God because only God has the stomach to hear these sorts of grief-stricken, curse-filled prayers. And because Psalm 137 prays this way, we have license to do the same—when we are in pain, in anger, hopeless without a prayer in the world. What do you know? At that very moment, it turns out that we do have hope, after all, because it turns out we do have a prayer in the world: we have Psalm 137 and so many others like it. In the end, that’s all this psalm is: a prayer. Just a prayer. A troubling, pathosfilled , inspired, and oh-so-understandable prayer. A prayer that gives us a script to recite when we are so sick on pain that we can’t think straight. A prayer that gives us a way to let go of all of our anger against all those responsible—and aim it full bore, double-barrel, point-blank, not at them, but at God, who has ears big enough to hear it, who has eyes big enough to see it, and whose body is large enough to absorb every last bit of it, so our enemies’ bodies don’t have to. It’s not going too far, then, I don’t think, to say that in prayers like Psalm 137, we are praying for our enemies.2 We are praying for them because we are praying about them—we are praying them into God’s own hands. But who knows what God will do with them, once we’ve handed them over? God may decide to be merciful to them! “Revenge is my business,” says the Lord (Deut 32:35), which means, of course, that payback is God’s job, not ours (Rom 12:19; cf. Heb 12:30). Our job is to pray about these enemies—pray our painful, angry prayers about our enemies. But pray them to God! Oftentimes, that seems like all we can do; no one else will listen. But when we finally do that, we sometimes find that praying like this transforms us. In the process of letting our anger go to God, while at the same time holding it back so it doesn’t go public, doesn’t go viral, doesn’t go ballistic (quite literally)—in that type of praying God might just teach us some things about our enemies, about our sorrow, about our Lord. In Revelation 6, after the holy martyrs beg for payback, “[ejach of them was given a white robe, and they were told to wait a little while longer” (Rev 6:1 la; CEB adjusted). Sometimes the saints learn, after their prayers, if not also in the very midst of praying them, that God’s sense of justice—not to mention its timetable—isn’t always synced with ours.


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    Violence, Redeemed That’s not an easy word. The real Word of God rarely is. And the psalm, the pain, the anger, the praying, the waiting—none of any of that is easy. Well, what did you expect? Look at that altar over there. What is that supper set for us there if not redeemed violence—God’s body absorbing the worst of human anger and aggression, and somehow giving it back to us cleaned up, fixed up, redeemed? That’s not simple stuff. It is not simple at the Lord’s Table, and it is not simple in the Lord’s Psalm number one hundred and thirty-seven. But what did you expect? Did you think ev­ erything was going to make sense right away? Pain is not that simple. Life is not that simple. God, for heaven’s sake, is not that simple! Important things—truly important things—are never simple, never easy. But so what? Our job is to keep doing what we are supposed to do. Pray. Wait. Keep praying. Keep waiting. Keep coming to God’s Holy Word and to God’s Holy Word made flesh, broken, and somehow given back to us. I suggest we get to work.

    Notes 1. Other possibilities include “truly happy,” “fortunate,” and “enviable”—even if those translations are as hard to get our heads around as “blessed. ” 2. For what follows, see Brent A. Strawn, “Imprecation,” in Dictionary of the Old Testament: Wisdom, Poetry and Writings, eds. Tremper Longman III and Peter Enns (Downers Grove: IVP Academic, 2008), 314-20. And the literature cited there, especially that by Ellen E Davis, Walter Brueggemann, and Patrick D. Miller, whose ideas are reflected here.

  • Easter at Hope Church

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    Easter at Hope Church

    From Incorporation: A Novel by Will Willimon1

    Will Willimon

    Duke Divinity School, Durham, North Carolina

    The Senior Managing Pastor entered the narthex, smiling broadly to the milling choir. A gaggle of sopranos made way. He planted a kiss on the cheek of an aging alto and then gave a pat to a soprano. “Hey, happy Easter to you!” snorted an older man in the narthex. Attired in an incongruous bright green vest, he spoke at a volume usually reserved for taverns. The organ gave way to the Hope Brass. Crucifer, clergy, and choir formed a line for the processional hymn. Preservice chaos bowed to liturgical order. Dear old Herbert Cohellen, retired pastor who had settled at Hope, had been invited to march in the procession and to make the announcements, his chief liturgical sinecure. The pimple-faced crucifer continued to lean upon his cross—stolid, bored, as if to say to all, “I’m not really here.” (His expression, not unlike a few in the choir.) The Hope Brass smothered all polite conversation in the narthex once the ushers opened the doors to the sanctuary. “Tenors! Tenors!” shouted Gerald the choirmaster. “For God’s sake put yourselves in line. I need all of you if we’re going to pull this off! Charles, all you basses look at me on that stanza when the anthem picks up steam! Look at me! Scott! That’s you!” “Has anyone seen my Harold?” asked a confused older woman in lavender. “I wonder if he has already taken a seat? Harold?” “Let’s do this thing, good people,” said the pastor jovially to the choir. “Joe, give the high sign to Grimballs,” ordered Gerald. (The choirmaster referred to the organist as “Grimballs” behind his back.) A bass turned around and flipped a small switch. Organist cued, Easter ensued. “Show time,” Gerald said, adding “break a leg”—in a pitch-perfect imitation of the late Orson Welles—the first wave of sopranos flowed into the aisle in the wake of the crucifer. To the last in line, he said, “Move it, honey,” patting her with his chubby, perspiring hand. Through doors held open by ushers, the procession began moving to the strains of “Christ the Lord Is Risen Today.” Other ushers stood by with folding metal chairs, ready to sweep in behind the choir with additional seating. The congregation, which on many Sundays was half-hearted in its singing, now with pews packed, bordered on enthusiastic.

    Christ the Lord has risen toda-ay, A-a-a-alleluia! All rejoice and angels sa-ay, A-a-a-alleluia!

    “Dum de dum, de dum dee dee,” Gerald stood at the door hammering out the tempo in the air for each successive wave of choristers. “Tenors, it’s all up to you,” his bass threateningly boomed as they moved passed. “Scott!” With morning light streaming through the windows in a strong blue cast, the soar­ ing arches, the well-ordered choir and noble organ, the brass interludes between the


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    second and fourth stanzas, and an eager, full house, Hope Church today approached the thrilling. The energy remained high as the service progressed—prayers well formed, elevated language fit for the occasion, a fresh new anthem, “Life! Life! Joy! Joy!” with tympani. There was a collect, thanking God for life and the sun, the grass, and democ­ racy. Then a selection from Messiah, keyed to the day. A Scripture reading. Another hymn —a new one—that annoyed the congregation with its unfamiliarity. A prayer of intercession by Herb in which God was informed of assorted health needs within the congregation and lectured on key current events. An acolyte nearly fumbled an offering plate, but otherwise the production was flawless. Herb wrestled with the announcements: Women Aflame Bible Study Fellowship will not meet this week, due to Easter. But the Moving Men…will meet this Wednesday to hear a presentation on “Ten Proofs of the.. Resurrection.” This gathering will be held in the Walter Rauschenbusch lounge. Mick McConnell’s famous sausage biscuits will be served… .The winners of the Hope Happy Hearts Easter Bonnet contest are Agnes Youlonts and Mary Summers… .Or perhaps that’s Mary Connors. Our “Send a Kid to Camp” drive begins next Sunday ….Goal: one hundred indigent kids…at camp, that is. And for those of you doing your spring cleaning, the clothes closet is in need of clean, warm winter coats in all children’s sizes…. From here the service regained its lost momentum and cantered toward the apogee: the sermon by the Managing Pastor. From the moment he rose to speak, ascending the pulpit’s steps, delight played upon the faces of the congregation, pride at the preacher in their employ, light falling upon Simon Lupino’s salt-and-pepper gray hair, his resonant baritone voice like that of a radio announcer. The preacher began with dismal citations from the recent news about the decline of the economy, an earthquake in Asia, a mass shooting at a mall in Texas, and the failure of a hundred-year-old tire company in Akron, fare that few expected to be served during an Easter sermon. These unpleasantries were a rhetorical ploy, however, poising the congregation for a good-hearted shove into the core of his message. Simon paused for effect—a few seconds of silence, then: Yet my friends, these stories of death, despair, and mayhem are not the only ones to be told. There is yet another word to be said. It is the word that has convened us this glorious Easter day—Life! Easter stories are charming and beloved—the women coming to a place of death, only to be surprised by life. The stupid disciples dumbfounded by glory. The announc­ ing angel. I plead with you not to trouble yourselves with intellectual concerns about the mere facticity of these ancient texts. Andante. I want to reframe, to reassure you that the word that these Bible stories are trying in their own ancient ways to speak is a word more important than any of our misgiv­ ings about these primitive witnesses. Basso profundo. As a great biblical scholar, recently retired from an endowed chair at a university in Oregon, instructs us… The preacher had forgotten the man’s name. …these stories of the empty tomb are metaphor, a primitive way of expressing deeper, useful spiritual truth.


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    That message is as near to your souls as the word that our choir has sung so well—Life! In the vale of the shadow of death—Life! Immortal, unquenchable life! His voice now rose to a high-pitched, earnest fortissimo. Believe not those who tell you that you are a frail creature of constricted vistas and constrained future! Believe not the naysayers and negativists. Believe in Life! Easter is not about one Near Eastern man’s unjust death and grim entombment. Injustice happens, particularly in that benighted part of the world. Easter is more. It is grand, cosmic, eternal, and indeed it is universal, most of all, it is relevant. It is the eternal message we hear whispered in our greatest poetry, set forth in our grandest music, and articulated in our wisest films—Life! Now a crescendo. I do not stand before you to argue this but rather to assert —Life! This glorious day with the sun shining down and the air fresh and clear is an eloquent natural testimonial to our supernatural theme—Life! Even as ex-President Jimmy Carter, man of malaise, has written, we live in a u culture of death.” The Easter word is a defiant protest against morbidity. And so I boldly speak it to you in the face of all your deadly, paltry ‘facts”—Life! Having risked a prophetic reference to Jimmy Carter at the end of the first move­ ment, the preacher modulated his voice into a more restrained conversational tone as he told a story about a woman who had feared that the successful, multimillion-dollar personal care products business she had founded in the basement of her home would fail under pressure from her creditors. A kind, charitable banker (who was Jewish!) had found a way around restrictive government regulations and had saved her with a bridge loan. Life! Life! he resumed, shouting at the top of his voice in grand, closing molto crescendo. Liiife! Exeunt. By prearrangement with the musicians, these last words of the sermon were im­ mediately followed by a building roll of tympani, the jarring clash of cymbals, and the choir’s near shouting of a verse from the old chestnut, “He Lives!” He lives! He lives! You ask me how I know he lives? He lives within my heart! A thrill ran through the congregation, their collective response to this skilled theatrical coordination between preacher and musicians. More brass, another clash of cymbals, and the organ took up the first verse of “Up From the Grave He Arose” as crucifer and clergy smoothly glided into position and the recessional began. Some in the choir, both women and men, had tears on their cheeks as they walked and sang. Some shouted more than they sang. Despite the full service, the benediction was pro­ nounced by the Senior Managing Pastor, followed by the Sevenfold Amen, at a mere five minutes past noon, testimony to careful liturgical execution. Choirmaster and pastor, looking at their watches, beamed, and nodded congratulations to one another on the punctual conclusion. “Thanks for another grand service,” more than one congregant was heard to say as the clergy glad-handed nearly everyone who exited, hugging some. “What an Easter!” one portly, red-faced man in a plaid sport coat exclaimed. “You got that right!” said an unidentified voice from the dispersing crowd. No one seemed unnerved by a man who was tortured to death and then brought back from the dead.


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    “Dr. Lupino, you really spoke to me today,” said one woman. “As you know, I lost Mother just a couple of months ago. Bless you for blessing me.” The person who queried, “Did you mean to criticize or to praise Jimmy Carter? I never was much on Carter,” was smilingly shoved on ahead and out the door. “Didn’t we have more lilies last Easter? Seemed to me like we had more lilies. Did we have more lilies?”

    Note

    1 Will Willimon, Incorporation: A Novel (Cascade, Oregon: Wipf & Stock, 2012).

  • Entering into Advent

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    Entering into Advent

    John B. Rogers, Jr.

    Montreat, North Carolina

    On the threshold of Advent, we become aware again of how God’s movement toward us, God’s claim upon us, God’s commitment to us permeate the unf olding drama of the Bible. The Psalter gives its ongoing testimony: “O Lord, you have searched me and known me !”(Ps. 139:1). In Genesis God commands Abraham: “Go… to the land that I will show you, and I will make of you a great nation… and by you bless all the families of the earth” (Gen. 12:13). In the Exodus, God vows to be present with and for Israel, the promise contained in the divine name, Yahweh- “I am who I am… .1 will be there for you/with you” (Ex. 3:14). In Jesus Christ, God’s promised presence comes to full expression-the Word be­ comes flesh to dwell among us, full of grace and truth (John 1:14). The Risen Christ, in his farewell promise, claims and secures our future with God: “Lo, I am with you always” (Matt. 28:20). God’s movement toward us begins effectively with the creation of heaven and earth. Even “in the beginning,” the promise of Christmas is present. Creation already looks toward God’s eternal dwelling with humanity. God’s love, grace, judgment, and forgiveness are the foundation of the divine intention, not mere afterthoughts. In placing the Genesis account of creation at the beginning (“In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth,” Gen 1:1) and the vision of a new heaven and a new earth at the end (“And God said… “It is done! I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end,” Rev. 21:6), the Bible constructs the arena for the advent of God. Our Advent preparation begins properly with an awareness of the encompass­ ing mystery of God to whom we address our invocation: “O Come, O Come, Em­ manuel ! ”

    I In the beginning, God. That is a confession of faith, or better still, a hymn of praise: “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. ” That is not a scientific theory of the beginning of the cosmos. We can converse about the universe in scientific terms with confidence and gratitude. We know that the universe is billions of years old. Mathematics and astronomy, physics and archaeology help us to discover many of its secrets and perhaps to solve problems connected with its origin and evolution. But we will do well to remember that there is a difference between a problem , which can be solved with greater knowledge, and a mystery, which is enhanced by knowledge. The proper response to a problem is hard work, study, research, and experimentation. The proper response to mystery is wonder, awe, prayer, and worship. Consider, for example, the problems of disease, natural disaster, and international tension. Many such problems have been and will be solved by scientific research, medical skill, wise and thoughtful diplomacy. But the mystery of life remains and deepens when we experience the birth of a child or live through the death of a loved one. “The closest I have ever felt to God,” said my father-in-law, “was when my chil­


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    dren were bom and I held them in my arms, and when my father died. ” Some of us remember the moon landing. That event represents a solution to the problem of space exploration. But we also remember the picture of earth taken from the moon-the globe on which we live and die and solve our problems, suspended there in the vastness of space. That blue ball only sharpened the mystery and wonder of our world. Paul Til­ lich told with delight a question his six-year-old daughter asked. “Why are trees not not?” A botanist may some day know all there is to know about how trees are trees, but no botanist as a botanist will ever know why there is a tree anyway. “Why are trees not not?” We recall the psalmist’s words: “Out of the mouths of babes.. .thou hast rebuked the mighty” (Psalm 8:2 NEB). However many problems we may solve, what can we know about our world that is more important than the following words?

    In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. The earth was a formless void, and darkness covered the face of the deep; and the Spirit of God was moving over the face of the waters. Then God said, “Let there be light”; and there was light….Then God said, “Let us make humankind in our image, according to our likeness….” So God created humankind… male and female God created them.” (Gen 1:1-3, 26, 27 NRSV)

    That is truth which can only be confessed, not explained. The biblical doctrine of creation is calculated neither to explain the origin of the world at some datable moment in the cosmic past nor to describe literally the beginning of time. The Genesis picture of God’s calling the world into being out of nothing is not a scientific statement about a historical event, but a theological confession about the deepest meaning of existence. The Hebrew word translated here “to create” is used only with God as its subject. The implication of that verb choice is that here we have truth far beyond our ability to explain, but not beyond our capacity to confess. It is truth beyond human conceiving, but not beyond our trust. John S. Whale wrote, “The doctrine of creation out of nothing is not a cosmological theory, but an expression of our adoring sense of the transcendent majesty of God, and our utter dependence upon God. ”1 Nor does the theory of evolution affect for one moment the truth that human beings have their origin and essential being in a word addressed to them by God, their Creator. By beginning with this hymn of praise to God, who called the world into being, the Bible makes us this proposition: it will introduce us to the wisdom and the will, to the grace and the love, to the power and the truth undergirding all knowledge, encompassing all of time. We may believe it or not; that is our decision. Either way: “In the beginning God….” And the stage is set.

    II In the beginning, God. So also, God in the end. Revelation 21 completes the scene. This is the message of the strange and mysterious book of Revelation. In the end, God—with all the reassurance and joy that implies. The scene in Revelation is appropriately cosmic. The whole created order fills this vision of a new heaven and a new earth, conforming in every way to God’s purpose and dominated in every way by God’s presence. It is a glad scene. Individuals are reconciled to God; nature and history are redeemed as well. The message of Revelation is gospel, not gloom! The


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    Bible does not end with despair, but with a song of God’s victory and our hope: “The Lord God omnipotent reigneth!” (Rev. 19:6 KJV); “Behold, the dwelling of God is with mortals. God will dwell with them, and they shall be God’s people, and God himself will be with them” (Rev. 21:3). If we are to hear Revelation’s message of hope and triumph, it is important to avoid a literal understanding of its highly symbolic language and imagery. For ex­ ample, Revelation does not give us a blueprint for the end of time. To use this book to determine when and how the world will end, or to identify who are the saved and how many, or to equate some contemporary political figure with the Antichrist is to misuse it. To argue from Revelation to an exclusive view of humanity’s relation to God as though our way, or some particular way, were the only way into God’s heart in the end is to miss its meaning altogether. Rather, we should allow the artistry and poetry and music of this book to have its way with us until the sheer, shimmering grace of it melts away any cruel exclusiveness we cling to. Consider, for example, the wonderful imagery in that final vision of the heavenly city in chapters 21 and 22. The judgment of God is real, but we have moved here through and beyond judgment to redemption. There are twelve gates, we are told, and then, “The city has no need of sun or moon to shine upon it, for the glory of God is its light, and its lamp is the Lamb [Christ]. By its light shall the nations walk…and its gates shall never be shut by day-and there shall be no night there” (Rev. 21:23-25). What a telling way to show that the gates of God’s mercy are ever open! The gates of the city are never closed while it is day, and there is no night! Jesus warned the disciples about wanting to know the “times or seasons which the Father has fixed by his own authority” (Acts 1:7). The consummation of history, its judgment and redemption, is hidden. But like our own lives, it is “hidden with Christ in God” (Col. 2:2 NEB) from beginning to end. We who would proclaim the triumph of grace in this marvelous book at the end of the Bible shall ever be in the debt of the composer George F. Handel who set it to music in the “Hallelujah Chorus.” Its text consists of these verses from Revelation: “ Allelujah: for the Lord God omnipotent reigneth… .The kingdoms of this world are become the kingdoms of our Lord, and of his Christ, and he shall reign for ever and ever… .King of Kings, and Lord of Lords” (Rev. 19:6; 11:15; 19:16 KJV).

    Ill In the beginning, God. In the end, God. And within the encompassing mystery, Emmanuel! Any proclamation and interpretation of this gospel must acknowledge that Emmanuel has to do not only with Christmas and comfort, but also with a cross. Emmanuel means “God with us” not merely, or even primarily, to shield us from the dark side of life, but to be with us and to go with us through the valley of the shadow, whether of death or despair, suffering or tragedy. We cannot knit Genesis and Revela­ tion and Jesus into a little creed and then, using it for a security blanket, withdraw, leaving God’s world to God. We cannot leave to others the doing of what really needs to be done. This vision of God in the beginning, God in the end, and God with us in Jesus Christ is a call to, not a substitute for, obedient action and faithful living in the world. Paul Scherer declared:

    If this vision [we] have of God does not move and drive and pull and


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    tug and wrench and twist and hold and stride and walk off grimly after God, it is nothing. We stultify it when we use it as a solace and no more. We prostitute it when we hitch it to some private little enterprise against headaches… .This is to take the power of God that swings the stars in their orbits and ask it to do nothing but the household chores.2

    The gospel of Emmanuel is something other than a technique for making things easy. “The God who is primarily a helper toward the attainment of human wishes,” wrote H. Richard Niebuhr, “is not the being to whom Christ said, ‘Thy will, not mine, be done. 3 There is a cross at the heart of this faith we profess, and a cry of anguish: “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” (Mark 15:34) and a whispered prayer of utter trust: “Father, into thy hands I commit my spirit!” (Luke 23:46). In the story of David, Abigail, who later becomes David’s second wife, says to him, “If men rise up to pursue you and to seek your life, the life of my lord shall be bound in the bundle of the living in the care of the Lord your God” (I Sam. 25:29). Something like that is the assurance we are meant to draw from the way the Bible begins and ends. The encompassing mystery graciously upholds and sustains us. In our time, faith, hope, and love are beset by pain and violence. To live by faith may not mean less pain or less distress; the way of faith is not a detour around adversity. Indeed, there are circumstances in which faith seems only to sustain us, to help us endure. Sometimes we can do no more than cling to the faith of others. Sometimes the faith of the church, locally and historically, has to bear us along in our doubt and disability. We are like the paralytic brought to Jesus by his friends. “There are times when I just cannot say the creed,” said one of my parishioners. “Til say it for you until you can say it again,” I replied. “Whether or not you were aware of it, there have been times when you have had to say it for me; and I shall probably need you to do so again in the future. That is one thing we mean by ‘the communion of saints.’ That is one reason we are given to one another in the church.” Devout women and men across the ages until now can testify to that. There are times when we may have to refrain from saying to one another, “Keep the faith!” in order to say more appro­ priately, “Let the faith keep you!” Furthermore, our calling as Christians is to live against evil, to oppose the woes that afflict humanity, and to stand against their human causes. We cannot responsibly leave misery unalleviated. We dare not stand aloof from what Keats called “the giant agony of the world.” To do so is a kind of practical atheism in the face of the good news of a God who created the heavens and the earth, who so loved the world that he gave his only Son, and who shall reign as King of kings and Lord of lords forever and ever. This has always been the courage in which Christians have faced up to evil and faced it down-the assurance that “your life shall be bound in the bundle of the living in the care of the Lord your God.”

    IV In the beginning, God; in the end, God. Like anthems of two great choirs, the Genesis hymn of creation and the crescendo of the “Hallelujah Chorus” enfold the cosmos and every creature, the whole of time and every life, in the encompassing mystery of God. Our preparation for the advent of God begins in silence as we await a word from


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    beyond ourselves, from within the mystery.

    Let all mortal flesh keep silence/ And with fear and trembling stand; Ponder nothing earthly minded/ For with blessing in his hand, Christ our God to earth descendeth/ Our full homage to demand.

    Out of the encompassing mystery, God comes to us at Christmas—and not as a stranger. As the fourth Gospel puts it, “He comes unto his own.” Even if “his own” will not receive him, as is so often the case with us, the fact remains that in Christ we are God’s own. We are God’s own from the beginning. We have no past existence in which we might have been created and prepared for something other than the grace of God. God claimed us “before the foundation of the world” (Eph. 1:4). We may doubt, deny, or renounce God’s claim, but God will never relinquish this claim. We have no future existence in which we might be destined for something other than God’s judging and redeeming love.4 In W. H. Auden’s Christmas Oratorio For the Time Being, at the dedication of the infant Jesus, the righteous and devout Simeon declares,

    But here and now the Word which is implicit in the Beginning and in the End is become immediately explicit, and that which hitherto we could only passively fear as the incomprehensible I AM, henceforth we may actively love with comprehension that THOLI ART. Wherefore, having seen Him, not in some prophetic vision of what might be, but with the eyes of our own weakness as to what actually is, we are bold to say that we have seen our salvation… .And because of His visitation, we may no longer desire God as if God were lacking: our redemption is no longer a question of pursuit but of surrender to Him who is always and everywhere present. Therefore at every moment we pray that, following Him, we may depart from our anxiety into His peace.5

    So, dear friends, let us with gratitude, confidence, and joy lift our voices as Advent begins: “O come, O come, Emmanuel.”6

    Notes 1 John S. Whale, Christian Doctrine (Cambridge University Press, 1941), 32. 2 Paul Scherer, Event in Eternity (New York: Harper and Bros, 1945), 36. 3 H. Richard Niebuhr, The Meaning of Revelation (New York: Macmillan, 1960), 36. 4 See Karl Barth, Church Dogmatics Vol 3: 1 (Edinburgh: T + T Clark, 1958), 67. 5 W.H. Auden, For the Time Being (New York: Random House, 1944), 115, 118. 6 This essay contains material from the author’s book The Birth of God: Recovering the Mystery of Christmas (Abingdon Press, 1987).

  • Christians’ Responses to Plagues: A Glimpse at the History

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    Christians’ Responses to Plagues:

    A Glimpse at the History

    Catherine Gunsalus Gonzalez

    Decatur, Georgia

    The title promises a “glimpse” at how Christians have responded to plagues throughout history, and a brief glimpse is all that can be discovered. There were no scientific surveys of disease outbreaks until quite recent history, and yet we know that disease and devastating local outbreaks were a constant feature of life before modern science gave explanations for transmission and kept track of significant epidemics. There are, however, a few instances that can help us understand how Christians and the church acted in situations of plagues. The hist is in the mid-third century, in the midst of civil wars in the Roman Empire as well as serious state-led persecution of Christians. In such a dire situation, we have two bishops—one in Carthage in North Africa and one in Alexandria, Egypt—who give accounts of how things were when “pestilence” added to their already painful situation. In the fourteen century there are sources for knowing something of how Christians behaved in the Great Plague of bubonic fever. In the post-scientific era there are three plague-like events in the twen­ tieth century that are instructive: the “Spanish Flu” pandemic of 1918, the epidemic of polio cases in the mid- 1940s, and the beginning of the HIV-AIDS global epidemic late in the century. All of this history can lead us to thoughts about the church in our present pandemic.

    Mid-Third Century: When Christians were a Persecuted Minority Cyprian had only recently been baptized when he was elected bishop of Carthage in 249. Empire-wide persecution of Christians began about 250, and Carthage was seriously affected. Shortly after the persecution began, a serious plague broke out in Carthage. This marked an early point in a pandemic that lasted more than a decade and affected the whole of the Roman Empire. It also was a time of political instability, with emperors assassinated and generals replacing them every few months. Rarely was an emperor ruling for years. Blame was placed on the Christians for the plague, and Cyprian replied to such charges. This time of plague is called “The Plague of Cyprian,” not because he was considered responsible for it, but because of all the writings of the time that deal with the pandemic, only his sermon/treatise “On the Mortality” gives an extended description of the effects of the disease on its sufferers. On the basis of this description, modern writers have attempted a diagnosis and gener­ ally classify it as some sort of virus that began in animals and crossed over to humans, either of a swine or bird flu variety or a hemorrhagic fever like Ebola. Whatever it was, it was a new disease, spreading rapidly, highly fatal, and with enormous social consequences. Within the majority pagan population, many relatives of those with the disease evidently abandoned them, leaving them to die outside the house, unattended. This had often happened in epidemics, but now the streets were filled with the dead and dying. It is in such a situation that the Christians displayed a radically different behavior.


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    In his biography of Cyprian, Pontius, a deacon who had served with him, recalls a sermon that the bishop gave calling the people to help their neighbors, caring for the sick and burying the dead, whether they were Christian or not. Cyprian also responds to the question of why the Christians are suffering from this disease as much as the pagans are. He says that one does not become a Christian in order to avoid suffering. Christians and non-Christians are all part of one human family, and whatever affects one can affect all. He says, “We are all, good and evil, contained in one household. Whatever happens within the house, we suffer with equal fate.”1 But Christians, though they suffer physically as much as others do, may have their faith strengthened by suffering, whereas others, who suffer without faith, can only complain about their losses. He writes

    that pestilence and plague which seems horrible and deadly, searches out the righteousness of each one, and examines the minds of the human race, to see whether they who are in health tend the sick; whether relations affectionately love their kindred; whether masters pity their languishing servants; . . . whether, when their dear ones perish, the rich, even then be­ stow anything [on the poor], and give, when they are to die without heirs.2 (On the Mortality, 16)

    A decade later, in Alexandria, Bishop Dionysius also wrote about his people sur­ viving the persecutions and the civil wars only to be confronted with the pandemic. His letters are preserved by the fourth century historian Eusebius. Dionysius notes the same contrast between Christian and pagan actions during the plague: that the pagans abandoned their sick and dying whereas Christians showed their love and concern for them. Evidently many people were attracted to the church precisely because of the actions of Christians during this time of pandemic.3 Throughout the second and third centuries, the church was creating local structures that would ease the task of helping the poor and the sick. In general, this was the task of deacons, both male and female. It was probably also the task of the orders of wid­ ows and virgins. Food, clothing, money for the poor, care for the sick, comfort for the dying: all of this was considered to be essential to what it meant to be the church. The bishop was the leader in this and probably set the tone for how well these ministries were carried out. In Carthage, Cyprian was clearly a model for a graceful response to Christian and non-Christian alike when a situation like the pandemic occurred.

    The Fourth Century and. Beyond: When the church is the dominant religion The worst persecution came as the new century began. And it ended abruptly after about a decade. The emperor who ended it was Constantine, and he not only stopped the persecution, but he also made clear that all religious groups were to be permitted as long as they did not break the laws of the empire. Christians, Jews, pagans all were equally to be tolerated. But even as this declaration was issued, the emperor made clear that he himself was greatly supporting the Christians. By 325, Christians alone had tax exemption on their property; their clergy were exempt from serving in the military; their bishops had access to the imperial post—the only mail service available. It became obvious to everyone that Christians were more than hist among equals. The emperor and his mother built huge churches. As a result, there


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    was a rush to join this favored group, and within seventy-five years, the Christian Church went from being a persecuted minority to being the established religion of the Roman Empire. Jews were tolerated but not supported, and the old pagan religions could not hold public ceremonies. This new situation gave rise to both problems and opportunities. In terms of health care, it meant that the church could now carry out even more extensive work. Within the fourth century, the hist true hospitals were formed, and, in association with the newly developing monastic movement, there were people trained to care for the sick. This was especially true in the Eastern half of the empire, where the great urban centers were located. In the West, the structure of the empire itself collapsed in the fifth century, and, with so many constant invasions by various Germanic groups, there were few urban centers. Even Rome dwindled from a million inhabitants at its height in the early second century C.E. to about sixty thousand at the end of the sixth century. The loss of maintenance of water systems and swamp clearance led to disease, and the ancient supply chains for food had also been destroyed. Urban centers could really no longer be supported. So the West was largely rural, with a far smaller population than the East. Monasticism developed later in the West, not really growing rapidly until Benedict in the sixth century. But then it really did grow, and with it, a system of health care centered on the monastery, where there could be charitable work for the poor in the area as well as probably the work of the inhrmarian in the monastery who was probably the only trained medical person in the area. The inhrmarian grew the herbs, made the medicines, and could be consulted by those in need outside of the monastery itself. This remained the situation for centuries in the West until the twelfth century, when the crusade led to the development of hospital monastic orders. After that, in the high Middle Ages, the study of medicine was a concern of the emerging universities, all still under the general rule of the church. And yet, it was just after the great high point of the Middle Ages in the thirteenth century that there was the most dramatic health problem in a thousand years: the outbreak of bubonic plague, the Black Death, the Great Plague of the fourteenth century. The century began with a strange climate change we now call “the Little Ice Age. ” Harvests failed because of freezes, too much rain, crops rotting in the fields, and the result was famine and malnutrition for more than a generation. Then came the brown rat, the result of increased trade from East to West. This rat carried a flea that took the bubonic bacterium from the rat and gave it to humans. In the West, families were accustomed to living close to animals, especially in the northern areas where the heat from the house helped to keep animals warm by barns attached to the houses. Fleas had a good situation. The plague killed more than twenty-five million people in Europe, about one-third of the population. How did the church—how did Christians—respond? It is a very mixed report from the evidence of the time. There are comments that priests abandoned their flocks, which would mean refusing the sacrament of the dying—extreme unction. And yet, the mortality rate for priests and religious leaders is higher than that of the general public. So some were very faithful in their work and others were not. The same would be true of the church members: some did abandon their families when disease broke out. Others acted lovingly. We have to remember that in the third century, in the midst of persecution, those who identified themselves as Christians were will­ ing to be martyrs, and that was a clear possibility. Cyprian himself says that in the


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    midst of the pandemic, it probably would be easier to risk dying of the disease than facing torture in the persecution. The distinction between the behavior of Christians and that of pagans was dramatic, because the ethic of the Christians was new to the wider society. In constrast, the wider society acted in what was a traditional way. But when the whole society is Christian, and there is no cost for being part of the church—in fact, there would probably be a cost for refusing to be—then we should not be surprised that the ethics of the church may not be ingrained in everyone, but the actions of some would be based on self-interest rather than love of neighbor, and there was a reaction. The church’s message was that it was the sin of the people that caused God to send the plague. Such a message could easily lead to the retort that some of the sin was also the institutional church’s, since the plague occurred in the midst of the Avignon Papacy, which laid bare the political involvement of official church life. The aftermath of the plague was followed by the Great Western Schism, with a pope in Avignon and another in Rome, causing even greater loss of authority for the church. There is an interesting contrast between what the church claimed in response to the Great Plague and Cyprian’s statements earlier that Christians and pagans are both part of one humanity and suffer all the ills of the world together. Of course Cyprian believed God’s Providence ruled the world, but there was always a distance between particular events and God’s actions. Cyprian did not blame God for the pandemic, nor did he hold that God was directly punishing any particular group by means of the plague. Both good and evil are suffering; both Christian and pagan are suffering. There was solid and good theological writing and preaching at the time. The same cannot be said for the mid and late fourteenth century. Both clergy and laity directly blamed God for the plague and sought to find explanations as to what particular hu­ mans were to blame. Jews, witches, and others were found as targets. Theology was reaching its low point in the late medieval era and had little to say that was helpful. Though many of the local parish priests acted heroically—and almost half of the local clergy were lost to the plague—their replacements were not of the same order. That is, if the church lost half of its clergy and the population itself lost probably at least thirty percent, how would the church replace the losses? It appointed many who were far less qualified than the ones they replaced. The church was losing its authority among the people because its easy explanations of why such a disaster could occur or what it meant was unsatisfactory. The hierarchy provided far less competent local representatives than before, all the while being compromised at the highest level of its organization.4

    The Protestant Reformation The success of the Reformation—that is, the fact that so many nations followed it and that the separation from the Roman Catholic Church actually succeeded—can­ not be imagined without the serious loss of authority and relevance to their lives that Europeans in the late fourteenth and the fifteenth century felt for the Catholic Church. Protestant areas as much as Catholic ones retained a single church monopoly, a state church form of Chr istianity. Therefore, in Protestant areas, there were no more mon­ asteries or convents with whatever medical services they had offered. Nor did the Protestants have their own orders to replace them. But people had come to expect the church to provide such services. In many areas it became the state that was re­


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    sponsible for this task, though it was often carried out at the local area by the parish church. The universities were also providing trained doctors who could also replace the earlier monastic inhrmarians. In Geneva, it was expected that pastors would know all of their parishioners and visit them in their homes. This also extended to pastors visiting local jails and hospitals. When plague struck in 1542, a plague hospital was set up outside the city, separating plague victims from both the well and those sick from other causes. It was very difficult to find a pastor willing to visit this hospital. Twice there were volunteers who visited but eventually died of the plague. Finally it was decided that all pastors had the duty to visit their parishioners who were in the plague hospital. For Calvin, it was clear that though laity could flee from the plague, as long as such a flight was consistent with their duties to their families, pastors were shepherds who could not flee when the sheep were most in need of their ministrations. It is interesting that there were pastors at the time, in other cities, who believed that plague was sent from God to punish the wicked, and therefore it was not legitimate to take precautions against the disease. Theodore Beza, Calvin’s successor in Geneva, replied that God works though secondary causes and has given us knowledge that can help us avoid the plague. It is right for us to use these, including flight, as long as this does not go against other duties that we have. We must always deal charitably with neighbors, walk piously with God, and fulfill the vocation God has given us. God may have sent the plague, but God has also given us reason to discover ways to avoid it or to deal with it.5

    Twentieth Century It is a long jump from the sixteenth to the twentieth century, but the past century had within it three significant outbreaks of pandemics or epidemics. One of these was the outbreak of “Spanish Flu” just at the end of the First World War, a form of swine flu that began possibly in a pig farm in the United States. It was named “Spanish” not because it originated in that country, but Spain, a neutral country in the First World War, gave out the statistics of the disease ravaging its population. Other countries involved in the war, though suffering equally, did not let it be known, for fear it could encourage the enemy. That delay probably gave the virus an advantage. When the war ended, returning troops brought the virus with them, increasing the problem in this country and many others. That epidemic had great parallels with the pandemic of today, yet it occurred before there was an awareness of viruses (as opposed to bacteria). The second epidemic was an outbreak of polio at the close of the Second World War, which intensified into the early 1950s, attacking young children particularly. In both cases, perhaps because of the unifying effect of the wars on the public in this country, there was a readiness to obey government directives in terms of quarantines and limiting exposure to groups. But the fear of these diseases cannot be overesti­ mated. At least the polio epidemic ended quickly with the successful development of a vaccine and its inexpensive and wide distribution. Where its use has been universal, the disease has been wiped out. The other pandemic in the last century was HIV-AIDS. (WHO prefers the term “global epidemic.”) The death toll worldwide for this disease is far higher than that of influenza in the early part of the twentieth century. It is estimated that the death


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    toll in the three years of that flu pandemic was between twenty and fifty million. Since 1980, the death toll from AIDS has been about eighty million, and though the number of deaths every year is declining, it is still very high. There is a high death toll if there is little testing or if medication is not available. For those who do have access to these things, the death toll has been greatly reduced. The churches’ responses to HIV-AIDS requires nuanced comments. If we con­ sider only this country, our perception of how the various churches reacted may be limited to how they associated the disease with homosexuality. Many Christians initially assumed this was only a disease of gay men, and some declared that it was God’s judgment on such behavior. At the time, in the early 1980s, homosexuality was a very difficult topic for churches to discuss. When drug users became the next identifiable group to suffer from the disease, condemnation was again easy, with a false sense that church members do not fall into these categories. There were calls for compassion rather than condemnation, but the association with homosexuality and drug use made it a difficult topic of discussion for many Christians. Worldwide, however, the disease was associated with heterosexual men and women and present at birth to infants born to infected mothers. In Sub-Saharan Africa, the death rate for parents from HIV-AIDS has led to enormous numbers of orphaned children. The Roman Catholic Church in this country seemed to be known only for its rejection of the use of condoms, which is a major form of protection against the AIDS virus. In spite of this, worldwide the Roman Catholic Church provides at least a quarter of all medical treatment for AIDS victims, particularly through its medical missions in Africa and other countries.6 Among both Protestant and Catholic churches, there often is a disconnect between official declarations of the institutional church and the actual activity at the local level. A denomination may issue support for HIV-AIDS victims, and yet local congregation feel otherwise; or a denomination may condemn the victims, and yet on the ground many congregations and church organizations actually do provide health care. This may be local congregations that develop ministries to AIDS victims or drug addicts.

    Today We are now in the midst of another pandemic: COVID-19. What we can see from this brief history is, hist of all, that there is a great human tendency to want to find guilty parties that can be blamed for the outbreak. We have seen that in almost all epidemics. The church may be both the harborer of such opinions and the major opposition to them. This is particularly true at the congregational level. We need to remember Cyprian’s words, that Christians are part of the same human family with all people and suffer the same ills. He thought in terms of the whole community rather than the church in opposition to the world around it. The ancient church believed that the health of the congregation and the society was part of its ministry, and they provided structures to carry it out. What that would mean today is an interesting and necessary question. It is also clear that the church fares better in its response to pandemics when its leadership and pastors share a solid theology. The resort to easy blame is no substitute for careful theology. As the population of the world increases and the movement of peoples grows, it is clear that many of the modern outbreaks of new diseases come from the interaction of animals and humans. The 1918 flu, Ebola, HIV-AIDS, and COVID-19 all have


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    as their suspected origin the leap from an animal virus—swine, birds, chimpanzees, bats—to a transmissible human virus. This means that the human food chain needs to be improved and made more secure. Even in this country, the supply chain for processed pork and chicken has proven susceptible to rapid spread of disease among those who process our meat. The food chain is in danger and is a danger for the creation and spread of new viruses, apparently in increasing frequency. Christians, as part of the one human fam­ ily that depends upon the current food supply chains, need to work on this issue. The Bible is concerned about food and about how it is processed. Christians sometimes seemed to think that once the Jewish dietary laws could legitimately be considered unnecessary, anything else the Hebrew Scriptures said about food could be forgotten. We need to work on the theological issues bearing on food, its production and distri­ bution, and, with the rest of the human family, create strategies for amendment. The church’s response is always mixed. Greater education in discipleship and its impact on society would help. The church may reflect the all-too-common prejudices of the society, but it may also be the seedbed of invention in care and cure. Which of these responses has greater effect and publicity in the wider world is a critical issue.

    Notes 1 “An Address to Demetrianus, 19, The Ante-Nicene Fathers (Grand Rapids: Wm. B. Eerdmans Pub­ lishing Company, 1957), V.457. 2 On The Mortality, 16, Ibid.,473. 3 Eusebius, Church History, Vll.xxii, 7-10, Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers (Grand Rapids: Wm. B. Eerdmans, 1952), I, 307. 4 Philip Zeigler, The Black Death (Dover, NH: Alan Sutton, 1993) pp. 211-13. 5 Scott M. Manetsch, Calvin’s Company of Pastors: Pastoral Care and the Emerging Reformed Church, 1536-1609 (New York: Oxford University Press, 2013), pp. 285-289. 6 https://www.catholicsforchoice.org/issues_publications/the-lesser-evil/ Accessed July 10, 2020.

  • Teach Us to Count Our Days

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    Teach Us to Count Our Days

    Psalm 90

    Agnes W. Norfleet

    Bryn Mawr Presbyterian Church, Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania

    Every once in a while we come across some fragment of a script from another era, and it is almost haunting how relevant it feels in the present day. The French philosopher Voltaire had a wit and wisdom that transcends his moment as a figure of the eighteenth-century Enlightenment. He posed an intriguing question in the form of a riddle that I believe preoccupies much of our consciousness today. Voltaire asked, “Of all the things in the world, what is the longest and the short­ est, the swiftest and the slowest, the most divisible and the most extended, the most neglected and the most regretted, without which nothing can be done, which devours all that is little and ennobles all that is great?” And then he gave the simple answer: “Time.”1 We are well acquainted with the paradox of time. If we are waiting in a long line, anxious for the doctor to call with test results, or yearning for a college acceptance letter to arrive in the mail, then the passage of time lasts way too long. If we are rush­ ing to get somewhere, have an unreasonably lengthy to-do list, or find ourselves up against a tight deadline, then time speeds by and comes up short. If we expand our musings regarding the passage of time from the personal to more general concerns about things like the upcoming presidential election, the plight of the largest refugee crises in history, or global warming, then sheer panic can erupt over the times we are in. We yearn for time to give us a chance to transform, heal, repair, rebuild, and open upon a brighter tomorrow. Depending on our momentary perspective, time is both the longest and the shortest, the swiftest and the slowest, the most neglected and the most regretted indeed. I typed Time Management as a subject into the Amazon Books search engine, and over 50,000 titles can be found, including a whole section on time management for kids. Long gone are the days, it would appear, when children spend hours out­ doors enjoying the good earth, making mud pies and feeding birds, climbing trees and taking flight in their imaginations. In 1979 a child was deemed ready for the first grade if she were six years old, had two to five permanent teeth, could tell a school crossing guard her address, could stand on one foot with her eyes closed for five to ten seconds, could ride a small two-wheel bicycle, could travel alone four blocks to a friend’s house, and could count eight to ten pennies correctly. Forty years later, a checklist for the first grade in one public school includes: the ability to identify and write numbers to 100, count by 2’s to 20 and by 5’s to 100, interpret and fill in data on a graph, read all kindergarten-level sight words, be able to read books with ten words per page, and form complete sentences on paper using phonetic spelling.2 No wonder there is a market targeting time management books for children. And sadly, during the recent Christmas shopping season, we learned that if you want one of those books the very next day, and I’m guilty of checking that box, we can put peoples’ lives at risk because of the pressure placed on subcontracted truck


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    drivers to meet our need for speed. What did Voltaire say? Time “devours all that is little,” and can ennoble “all that is great.” In this season of high anxiety about both the urgent, quickly passing of hours and the slow moving length of days, how can we ennoble the great gift of time itself? The Psalmist gives answer, as if praying on our behalf in this moment of history, by asking God, “So teach us to count our days that we may gain a wise heart” (vs 12). Psalm 90 puts our worry about the passing of time in a theological context that may be more beneficial than any book on time management. The psalm begins with strong affirmations about God, the Creator who transcends time, proclaiming, “Lord, you have been our dwelling place in all generations… from everlasting to everlast­ ing you are God” (vs 1-2). It culminates declaring ageless and comforting attributes to describe God who steps out of eternity to enter the finite existence of humankind with compassion, steadfast love, glorious power and favor (vs 13-17). In the intervening verses, the psalmist is utterly realistic about the human ex­ perience of time passing by. Our years seem fleeting; they are quickly swept away. We feel guilty and regretful about how we have spent our days when they are soon gone, and we wonder if our limitations are the result of God’s displeasure and wrath (vs 5-11). When the human lifespan is set upon the stage of God’s everlasting life, we can feel very small and insignificant. However, our hastening years still matter a great deal, held as they are within the eternity of God’s steadfast love. The very fact that we live within God’s grand drama is precisely what gives our transitory nature meaning and significance. As Dorothy Bass has written,

    The psalm brings these two kinds of time-our short sigh and God’s moun­ tainous eternity-together. At the psalm’s center are our days, particular days, days that are of a finite and finally knowable quantity, like the actual days we pass from birth to death… This psalm, which strips us of all delu­ sions about our duration and durability, begins nonetheless in confidence. “Lord, you have been our dwelling place in all generations.” This psalm is not a cry of cosmic homelessness but an appeal that arises from within a dwelling place more enduring than the mountains, more ancient than the world itself.”3

    The movement of the psalm itself encourages this confidence from its opening affirmation about the eternal, everlasting nature of God through the stark acknowl­ edgement of human hnitude and limitations to its culminating prayer for practical wisdom about how to gain a wise heart (vs 12). According to Walter Brueggemann, a wise heart is one that discerns the purposes of God; a wise heart recognizes that human beings have power, freedom and responsibility; and a wise heart employs these attributes in trust and obedience to the living God.4 God’s dwelling place is not about geography but about relationship, and the psalmist’s closing petitions show us how to number our days with wisdom born of that relationship: we remember God has compassion for us; God satisfies us in the morning with steadfast love’, God fills our days with gladness greater than any af­ fliction we have endured; God’s good work and. glorious power are made known to us; and God’s favor rests upon us. Finally, the great God of creation who is beyond


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    all time, cares “to prosper for us the work of our hands, to prosper the work of our hands” (vs 17). God’s eternal presence affects and influences the daily work of our hands. How awesome is that! Twenty years ago on the eve of the millennium, as the clock ticked down and the year readied to turn from 1999 to 2000, my family buried a time capsule. It was a Christmas gift from friends who were spending the hist New Year’s Eve with us in a brand new mountain cottage that our family built on property inherited from my mother. The time capsule was a two-foot long PCV pipe with one open end that could be secured with a tightly fitting top, a metal ring, and screws. Our children were six and four years old. Between Christmas and New Year’s, we collected some things to bury under the deck, not to be opened for some time to come. One of the friends who gave us the time capsule just turned eighty, so we de­ cided to dig it up this past New Year’s as we celebrated her four-score years and the twentieth anniversary of the house. Each of us remembered some of what we had put in the time capsule, but none of us remembered everything. It came up out of the ground and I said, “I don’t remember that it was covered with all those brightly colored stickers,” and our younger son who was just four and a half when we buried it said, “That’s about all I remember.” We delighted in opening the time capsule. It included the Christmas Eve bulletin and a newsletter from our church; my husband’s architectural drawings of the moun­ tain house; a 1996 pin of Atlanta’s centennial Olympics, since we lived in Atlanta at the time; a 33-cent postage stamp—now clearly outdated; the January 1st, 2000 Newsweek magazine with a cover cartoon of Charlie Brown saying “Good Grief’ at his retirement after 50 years. Both of our sons had put in a picture they had drawn and a Pokeman card, and the six-year-old had included a little suitcase ID tag with his name and address proudly printed by hand. There were photographs of our friends who gave us the time capsule and pictures of our family in front of the cottage under construction. There was a little note that said, “This time capsule was put together by James, Winston, Agnes, Larry, Libba and Suzanne on New Year’s Eve, 1999. To­ day we went on a hike, worked a puzzle, went to the playground, worked a puzzle, had a good time, worked a puzzle, and buried this time capsule on New Year’s Day, 2000.” Over these twenty years, those little boys have grown to young men who are making their way in this world largely on their own. Libba and Suzanne retired and left Atlanta to live not far from our cottage in the western North Carolina mountains. Larry and I have moved a couple of times, have been called to new work, and frankly, look about twenty years older! When we dug up the time capsule, apart from the stuff that we surfaced and examined through faulty memories and curiosity, the salient reminder that came to light for me was this: Time marches on and we grow older, we accomplish much, make mistakes and endure terrible things, but the most enduring qualities of life transcend the hours and the days-love, family, friendship, laughter, hopes and dreams and aspirations, faith and faithfulness. A wise heart remembers the Giver of all these good gifts. Now, I know that most of life is not lived in a vacation home surrounded by fam­ ily and friends enjoying the recollection of a really fun holiday twenty years ago. But we still have ample opportunity amid our fleeting years, in weekly worship and daily devotion, to be grateful, to be grateful that the daily work of our hands matters to the


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    God who has been our dwelling place since before those mountains were brought forth.

    Notes 1 Marcel Danesi, The Puzzle Instinct (Bloomington: Indiana State University Press, 2002), 42. 2 Greg Lukianoff and Jonathan Haidt, The Coddling of the American Mind (New York: Penguin Press, 2018), 186. 3 Dorothy C. Bass, Receiving the Day: Christian Practices for Opening the Gift of Time (San Francisco: Jossey-Bass, 2000), 121. 4 Walter Brueggemann, The Message of the Psalms (Minneapolis: Augsberg Publishing House, 1984) 111.

  • God’s Dangerous Experiment or And on the Sixth Day the Creator Took a Very Long Lunch-Break

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    Protagonist Corner

    God’s Dangerous Experiment or And on the Sixth Day the Creator Took a Very Long Lunch-Break

    Douglas John Hall McGill University, Montreal, Quebec, Canada

    “Man, then, was a result of God’s curiosity about Himself.” Thomas Mann, Joseph the Provider

    To do it or not to do it? That was the question. That morning all the lovely crea­ tures had been made. Such a fascinating variety! They were just splendid, running about the firmament, gaping, trying out their brand new voices, sniffing one another, darting about in air and water. Separately and collectively, the brooding Spirit found them very good. Very good indeed! Almost perfect! And yet…. “They can’t talk to me,” She found herself thinking as She sat down at the high table for lunch. The morning’s burst of making-things-out-of-nothing had been enormous fun, but now She realized that something was still missing: “They are, but they don’t know that they are. Are they glad that they are? Are they content? Do they like being? What are they thinking about? Are they thinking at all? I don’t know, omniscient as I’m reputed to be! And they can’t tell me.” She wanted—what? Well, She wanted something, someone to answer when she called out, Where art Thou? Or at least have the sense to hide! She wanted—yes! —a thinking, speaking, acting, making, evaluating, responding creature, a being indepen­ dent enough to say Yes, and to say it nicely, or at least interestingly. Well, to say Amen representatively, for itself and in behalf of all the other creatures. To find inventive ways of expressing gratitude for being. “Ah, but there’s the rub,” She said aloud to no-one in particular (though She did notice that one of the young angels, one of that new smart set, looked disturbingly “interested”). “There’s the rub: If they could say Yes, they could also say No!” Such a thinking animal could easily become a problem. Capital P! A problem to Her. A problem to all the other creatures. Above all, a problem to itself! A huge, unpredictable, never-ending complication! Capital C! Having such fi’eedom, it would probably fall into silly boasts about the excellence and rectitude of its will… or, on the other hand, it might be so terrified of the choices it was called to make as to seek anonymity, hide away amongst the shrubbery. Capable of unbounded thought, it might well think itself into debilitating states of anxiety, which to avoid it, might just stop thinking altogether. Or try to. (“Hmm. I must look into the prospect of deliberate un-thinking. Maybe some of the plants in the Garden could be misused in such a sad quest for oblivion.”) Being a “psychosomatic ” unity (as, someday, some of its own bright Dehners would excitedly announce), would it ever accommodate itself to its unheard-of dual­ ity?—like the angels imaging God yet sharing its reproductive drives and much else with the other animals? Conscious of its vulnerability, it would likely vacillate between abject self-doubt and pathetic attempts at control. Sisyphus or Prometheus. Naturally, either path would


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    lead to dismal failure and suffering. Would it then perhaps take out its frustrations on the other creatures, lording it over them, misusing them, killing for sport, manipulat­ ing natural processes, devising alternative creations; in short, mistaking stewardship for mastery? Confronted daily by the undeniable limits of its knowledge, wouldn’t it inevi­ tably be driven to egocentric quests for all-knowingness, proposing great schemes and ideologies to which everyone must subscribe? Or, on the other hand, would the creature become so morbidly conscious of its ignorance and proneness to error as to seek refuge in sheer stupidity and resignation? Recognizing its capacity for good and. evil, it would surely be torn, wouldn’t it, between delusions of moral grandeur and orgies of guilt; or perhaps, when it came to know that even its alleged good was tainted by self-interest, slothful inertia, and feigned helplessness. As for the creature’s necessary (yes, that would of course be necessary!) aware­ ness of its mortality, the Great Spirit Herself could scarcely imagine what that would lead to! Unrelieved melancholia? Self-loathing? Endless repression? Forced and vapid entertainment? Or worse—heaven-bent religion? Clearly, there were pitfalls on every side. Was not such a creature, therefore, virtually un-do-able? Wouldn’t its actualization prove truly irresponsible? Could One really combine so much mind and spirit with so much (for want of a better term) “body?” And so forth. Forgetful of the excellent vegetarian lunch before Her, gathered fresh from the Garden that morning, the Great Spirit felt something approaching the (for Her) novel experience of Impossibility. “Omnipotence is a fine word,” she said aloud (noting again the exceptional curiosity of the handsome angel on Her left), “yes, theoreti­ cally all-powerfulness is a necessary attribute for Deity, and I suppose I have it; but the creature I’m contemplating would, I suspect, come too close to having it too, or imagining it did—which would be infinitely worse.” What a dilemma! If what She desired were indeed a thinking, speaking, deciding, evaluating, acting—well, an almost-independent sort of creature, a veritable image of Herself—then She could certainly not play the puppeteer and fashion a being who would always do the right thing, willy nilly. As this very luncheon meditation once again reminded Her, even within Her triune Self, dialogue and difference and the weighing of options and changing One’s mind were of the essence! So a being in Her image could not—a priori—be entirely denied all that. Were not such “dialectics” simply inherent in thinking? Yet, left an almost-entirely-free agent, but without Her unique capacity for creatively blending polarities, the creature would undoubtedly, sooner or later, simply self-destruct, perhaps bringing down the whole magnificent creation with it, a la that so-called Goetterdaemerung piece of the (easily-foreseen!) musical Faustus by Richard Wagner. All through the extended noon-hour of the sixth day, the divine Spirit brooded. She had moved ponderously over the aboriginal waters for aeons before daring the wonders She’d already managed, ending just that morning with the creation of all those lovely creeping, flying, and swimming things; but this -this needed a lot more brooding. She’d never thought so hard in all eternity! But Time, which She Herself had created earlier that week, was “getting on”; any excusable lunch-break would


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    have ended an hour ago! (“How is One to get used to this new business of… Time?” However….) And resolutely pushing back Her chair from the table, She rose, noting as She did so, the finely raised eyebrows of some. Evidently enough, She had made Her decision. There was only one way of resolving the dilemma. It was a conundrum engendered, after all, by her own (if one may be so bold) unorthodox musings, so She Herself would have to answer for any consequences of acting upon them. Whatever the details might prove to be, the fundamental stratagem would be as follows: having done the thing, She Herself would have actively, relentlessly, to “follow through.” She’d have to move among those odd creatures, “unstable and embarrassing” as they would likely be, move among like a wind, sometimes a cooling breeze, sometimes a regular whirlwind, constantly—constantly!—inspiring them to be, to become, to begin again! Without a doubt, She would be obliged to go very far—farther than ever before, absurdly far—in order to be present to them, in them, with them. With Her constant vigilance they might, at least now and then, take heart. With Her tireless encouragement, they might, now and then, here and there, find the will to “go on,” the courage to be, despite the often tempting preferability of not-being. Her quiet Presence, hardly-discernable as it would usually be, might sometimes inspire them to believe, evidence to the contrary, that they are not all alone in an indifferent universe. They might find the future-trust they’d need to face and to accept their nearly-impossible condition. Perhaps some of them might even learn to comprehend a little—or even to enjoy—being . . . human! Of course there was a cost for Her in all that. Her creating would have to be a continuous affair. Creatio continue*, as later, a few learned ones would call it. This creature couldn’t be created all at once—by flat: just a quick “Let there be” and then instinct takes over…, etc. No, time and again, in fact all the time, She would have to keep bringing something out of nothing, good out of evil, hope out of despair, trust out of fear, love out of indifference and hate, life out of death. She would have to continue breathing life into that poor lump of clay, not just to get it going but to keep it going! — to ensure that its evolving would not involve too much simultaneous devolving! And who knew how far that process would lead? “Creation,” by comparison, was elementary. Re-creation, re-novation, re-formation, re-generation, re-demption, re­ surrection—Well! That was something else. Clearly, there would be no Aristotelian nonchalance, no eternal Sabbath Rest, for the Instigator of such a creature. For a moment, standing behind Her chair, lost in thought, no longer conscious of nor caring about the raised eyebrows, the Great Spirit hesitated. (Understandably, wouldn’t you agree?) It was a huge risk. It certainly might not work. Was She pre­ pared for Failure? Multiple failures? Radically new Beginnings? To say the least, it was a dangerous experiment. And costly! Very costly! Then at last, with a determined nod of the Head to the alarmed onlookers, the Great Spirit abruptly walked off. Back to work! The sheer joy of having discourse with such a predictable, unpredictable being, a thinking, responding animal, would outweigh the pain that it would certainly entail for Her—and indeed for all concerned. So, blithely ignoring the patent incredulity of the Others, and calming for the moment Her own lingering doubts, on the afternoon of the sixth day. . . “God created human beings in God’s own image…male and female….And God saw everything


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    that He had made, and, behold, it was very good!” A Note to Skeptics: If and insofar as, dear friend, you find my story far fetched and entirely too loaded with doctrinal preconceptions, please pause for a moment and consider a Subject nearer home: any father or mother who intentionally begets new life, or, after the fact finds that he or she greatly loves the begotten being, takes exactly the same risk as does the Begetter of my story. And any father or mother who truly does love his or her child will be bound to shepherd and attend its progress or regress in exactly the same way as my “Great Spirit” concludes. It is called parenting. And contrary to the flippancy of some humans, it does not stop with the begetting. It goes on and on. And on. It is a huge risk, and it never turns out perfectly. Never! In fact, sometimes it approaches tragedy. It never escapes the tinge of pathos. But some of us, you know, find that it’s worth the effort. And that is why parent­ ing is the archetypal metaphor of the Bible’s picture of the Deity—He who is “Our Father who art in heaven,” She who like a mother hen would “gather” us. If, dear friend, you know of any other way in which parental love, whether human or divine, can function, please do let me know. Sincerely, Douglas John Hall, father of four, grandfather of eight. Thank you. Merci!

    Note: The author of this modest piece acknowledges the help of five or six centuries’ worth of Jewish and Christian Tradition, and of the great twentieth-century storyteller, Thomas Mann, whose insight about the heavenly councils and particularly the “raised eyebrows” at the high table, has been especially suggestive.

  • The Great Plot Twist

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    Page 48

    The Great Plot Twist

    Romans 5:12-21

    Meg Peery McLaughlin Llniversity Presbyterian Church, Chapel Hill, North Carolina

    This sermon is part of a Lenten series, “Cross Talk, ” where the church considers the different ways Christians have understood, atonement.

    A drama plays out on the cross.

    It’s a gruesome climax, the hero in defeat, accented by a mocking crown, last words and in Matthew’s productions, the lights go dark and the whole house shakes, and then… the plot twist that no one saw coming.

    Act One is all the rising action: Jesus in conflict with the devil and demons, confronting sickness and storms, at odds with empire and establishment.

    And as Act Two closes, it looks as if evil will win, as if the wrong will prevail. Defeat is certain, but then … an unexpected victory.

    The cross, as our tradition depicts it, stands empty to the sky. Christ’s life is undefeated by death. Christ’s love is undaunted by any opposition.

    As one poet put it, In the scene set in shadows like the night is here to stay; there is evil cast around us, but it’s love that wrote the play.1

    Friends, we have atonement with God, at-one-ment with God, because God would not let evil win, because God gave us a free gift in the grace of one man, Jesus the Christ.

    At least that’s how the Apostle Paul puts it in his letter to the church in Rome. Paul claims that grace exercises dominion through justification leading to eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.

    Bless his heart, Paul is so wordy. And yes, I mean that in the Southern way. Bless Paul’s heart. It takes a lot to get through Paul in this chapter.

    But ask a stranger to the church and even that person may be able to say that


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    “Jesus died on the cross to save us from our sin.” It’s a Christian stock phrase, emblazoned on countless billboards in the bible belt. Paul would agree, as long as you weren’t just talking about sin as that time you cheated on your sixth grade math test or how you still cuss in the car.

    Paul would agree, only if you made sin a capital “S” Sin.

    Scholar Beverley Gaventa writes, In Romans in particular, sin is Sin—not a lower-case transgression, not even a human disposition or flaw in our nature, but an upper-case Power that enslaves humankind and stands in total opposition to God.2

    In what we just read, Sin itself is a major character; it enters the scene with one man, Adam. Sin is one who enslaves, who brings death, who ensnares even God’s law. Brought together, these “achievements” on Sin’s resume” create the portrait of a cosmic terrorist.

    And yet, Sin’s defeat and demise is guaranteed by God’s action in Christ on the cross.

    Yes, this sermon is full of “hghtin’ words” – not my usual style, but that’s the imagery here. Defeat, demise. Paul speaks of Sin’s dominion. Other translations call it Sin’s reign. This is battle language, indeed. Evil is God’s own enemy. And Christ is God’s own Victor. This is where we see the atonement theory of Christus Victor, as it is said in Latin.

    The Christus Victor Theory may make more sense to those of you who live and breathe battles.

    For six years I had the humbling privilege of serving in a congregation where many members found their vocations in the military. I would often be invited to pray at promotion ceremonies. One such prayer was for a new Army Colonel headed off to War College, where officers across the branches get a Masters in Strategic Studies.

    Literal combat and tactical battles were not foreign to those I served in Northern Virginia. Those folks knew what it feels like to have much at stake.

    But it’s not just them, of course, not only those who know the feel of boots or who wear bars on their uniforms.

    We cannot escape knowing someone, loving someone, who struggles against depression or addiction;


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    who fights against cancer or chronic illness; who valiantly contends in family scuffles.

    On some level, I think we sense this theory of atonement even if we’ve never heard of it before.

    The powers of Sin will do their darnedest (and we have seen them try), but ultimately love will win, and new life will be victorious.

    To say Jesus died on the cross for our sin is not to say that the only thing that has happened on the cross is that our transgressions are forgiven, and we, person by person, come to belong to Jesus. But rather, on the cross a cosmic shift has taken place—once and for all.

    The powers and principalities may not know it, but their foundations have been undermined and they cannot last. Creation itself has been invaded by God’s new way and world: a new reign, a new dominion is at play: and it is a free gift of grace. And y’ all, that is a phenomenal claim.

    In JK Rowling’s fifth Harry Potter book, The Order of the Phoenix, Harry is in a bodily struggle with Voldermort, just after Voldermort’s lackey has killed Harry’s godfather. It is a low low moment as Harry is under the grip of Voldemort’s terrible power, but Harry says, “You’re the weak one. And you will never know friendship, or love. And I feel sorry for you.”

    That is Christus Victor. Love has already won. Evil is ultimately defeated.

    It is almost as if J.K. Rowling stole her lines from the great Desmond Tutu, who used to say to the apartheid government in South Africa, “You may have the guns, you may have all this power, but you have already lost. Come, join the winning side.”

    But y’all, it doesn’t always look like it, does if?

    The Sunday I was slated to preach this sermon, 49 precious children of God were killed senselessly, hatefully, while praying in Christ Church, New Zealand. That same Sunday in Adult Education, we started reading James Cone’s book, The Cross and. the Lynching Tree, where we were confronted yet again with the sense­ less hateful killing, this time of black bodies after slavery “ended.”

    I am not fooled. All of that is connected, of course. The capital S “Sin” of white supremacy does not yet know it is a defeated power.


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    But we know. Yes, we know. Islamophobia will not win. Racism will not win. White supremacy is not of God, even if religion is still used to prop it up. That’s why the church maintains our interfaith friendships, that’s why we study books that make us uncomfortable, that’s why we name out loud what is not true and live our lives under the banner of Christ the Victor.

    For as Wendell Berry said, Hate has no world. The people of hate must try to possess the world of love, for it is the only world; it is Heaven and Earth.

    But as lonely, eager hate possesses it, it disappears; it never did exist, and hate must seek another world that love has made.3

    Just a few chapters later in Paul’s letter to the Romans, Paul relents on all his wordy gesticulations. Paul sets aside all of his complicated prose and finds his stride among the poets.

    I read Romans 8 at nearly every funeral I officiate. It is likely the text which defines the core of my theology.

    “Who will separate us from the love of Christ,” Paul asks? Will hardship, or distress, or persecution, will cancer or depression or gun violence or partisan politics, will racism or cowardice or confusion about such things, will hate or apathy or anything else in all creation separate our at-one-ment with God?

    No, Paul says, we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. I was always stumped by that conqueror language; it seemed to come out of no­ where. Maybe because I didn’t grow up with all the military lingo.

    But I did grow up under the shadow of an empty cross, which means that I, like you, am a child of Christus Victor, and thus we fight for the winning side, the side of love.


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    Notes 1 David Wilcox, “Show the Way,” from the Album Horizon, 1994. 2 Beverly Roberts Gaventa, “The Cosmic Power of Sin in Paul’s Letter to the Romans: Toward a Widescreen Edition,” Interpretation, 58 no 3 Jul 2004, p 229-240. 3 Wendell Berry, “A Timbered Choir: The Sabbath Poems,” 1979-1997.

  • Obligated to Hope: An African American Perspective

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    Obligated to Hope: An African American Perspective

    Valerie Bridgeman

    Methodist Theological School in Ohio, Delaware, Ohio

    “We are obligated to hope.”

    Bishop Yvette Flunder

    I don’t remember the hist time I heard Bishop Flunder say “we are obligated to hope.” I know that I have heard her say it many times since. Almost every time I’ve heard her say it—whether in person or reading her response to a public event—the United States, the world writ large, or the church has been in the throes of chaos, pain, or some documented injustice, a hurricane ripping through a community or an unarmed black person shot dead by a police officer, for example. And this year, we have experienced an unprecedented pandemic, where lives have been lost and other lives hang in a balance. Her choice of the word obligated has always captivated me, mainly because I think it undergirds what I believe is a Christian mandate. We must hope. And with Advent, the Christian calendar is set up to reinforce this notion. Advent begins in anticipation, as the hist Sunday of Advent lights the candle of hope. As it is postured, this hope is an eschatological longing for the now and future coming of Jesus, an inbreaking on the mundane with divine power and intention. This hope is apocalyptic, a revealing of what is and what could be. This longing, this hope, is prophetic in that it reflects the “we believe” of a people in the presence of what seems like insurmountable despair. It is the prophet’s cry that God would “tear open the heavens and come down” (Isaiah 64:1). Even when that hope is infused with dread and an anxious watchfulness as described in Mark 13, asking us to be alert, we always are asked to keep hoping. We are asked to hope because of God’s faithfulness. And in a pandemic, I confess, it is not always easy to see God’s consistency. But, as Christians, we hold on to it because the proclamation comes from a trusted source. In African American settings, though, it seems counterintuitive to keep hoping. How, and even why, should anyone who is both African in heritage and American in location and birth hope? Under the scourge of the coronavirus, COVID19, black and brown peoples especially have been devastated, both with death and with economic despair. And yet, a survey of essays and books, podcasts, and social media postings would reveal a stubborn persistence among African American people to hope. This stubborn hope in African American communities is not optimism or an Enlighten­ ment-style expectation that the world gets better and better as time progresses. This brand of hope, as ethicist and theologian Barbara Holmes argues in her book Race and the Cosmos,1 defies the reality that the universe expands and contracts, that racial “progress” advances and then is pounded back by forces that do not want black peoples in the workplace to flourish. Thus, to approach racial justice as a one off event, e.g., the voting rights act was signed so there’s nothing more to do, or we elected a black president so we’re post-racial,” is not only faulty, but it’s an unfaithful expectation of the way the arc of justice bends. In other words, hope is not dependent upon indi­ vidual acts of justice, but rather the belief that the One who stands among us intends justice, and in the end, at the culmination of all things, justice will prevail, even if we


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    must endure contractions of justice along the way. This hope testifies that God will strengthen us to the end (1 Corinthians 1:8), even with setbacks and contractions, so that we may stand before God blameless. Thus, hope in Advent is not generic, and neither is the strand of hope in the DNA of African American culture(s) generic. This hope lives in particular contexts and struggles, like the struggle for health and economic justice that this pandemic uncovered. Or, as the Rev. Peter Gomes argued in his sermon on advent hope, hope is not optimism. He argues that, especially among African Americans, “our bitter experience of the past has taught us to expect little of the present and even less of the future, so we have substituted a shallow optimism for a deep hope,”2 and “Black people in America have never been optimistic, for we know better; but we have always been hopeful, full of hope.”3 For Gomes, optimism requires some looking away from horrors and perhaps even some self-deception, but “hope, you see, is not an act of will so much as it is an act of imagination and courage.”4 Advent is, in many ways, the opposite of Christmas celebrations as they have come to be designed in our culture, where we numb ourselves with parties and gifts and pretense. Advent, by Gomes’s definition, is a great time to cultivate imagination and courage, the ability to ground oneself, not in the belief that humans will get it right, but that God will help us live into God’s own vision for humanity and all creation. Hope is a call to look up rather than away from the horrors of the world. We look up, not in a way to deny what is, but to imagine what could be, and to work for that with God’s help. Such hope begins with the understanding that while we might not know the day or hour of Christ’s inbreaking—this Advent or in some consummate future—we can be “awake,” i.e. attentive to his inbreaking (Mark 13:35-37). Two particular books come to mind for me that highlight what Gomes means by hope in African American communities. In the turn of two elections, two different African American preachers churned out books about communal hope. One book, Audacity of Faith: Christian Leaders Reflect on the Election of Barack Obama,5 was a collection of essays in which African American Christian leaders contributed musings about what the election of Barack Obama meant culturally and theologically. Reading each essay, one might see exactly what Gomes argued. Almost to a person, contributors argued for people to relocate any optimism they experienced because of Obama’s election into hope in God’s activity in the world and not to lay upon Obama’s election some unbearable expectations. I don’t know what Dr. Marvin McMickle expected when he called for those essays, but what he got was Gome’s distinction between prophetic hope and cultural optimism. To be sure, people were excited, but also tempered. The other monograph, The Fierce Urgency of Prophetic Hope5 was published immediately after the election of Donald Trump. Judge Wendell Griffen, also a Baptist pastor, argued through a study-style book that people could not descend into despair, but rather the times called for prophetic hope, a trust in God’s activity beyond what some might have experienced as a complete reversal of optimism gener­ ated by Obama’s election. In both books, it is an eternal hope that God is at work to bring a just and righteous consummation to the world, in spite of who is in the U.S. White House. In her 1992 essay titled “African American Advent and Christmas Spirituals,” Professor Melva Costen demonstrates that fragments of Advent hope may be seen in the music of enslaved persons who adopted or converted to Christianity. In the

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    essay she notes that the longing for a returning or coming redeemer makes sense for people “yearning for justice and liberation,” thus making the assertion that “it is natu­ ral that they would turn to the coming of the risen Lord. Eschatology, as understood by the slave, had as much to do with the change of situations in the present world as it did with the end of the world. One needed to be properly prepared for both.”7 This understanding of Advent—now and the future—permeates African American understandings of what Griffen called prophetic hope. While reflecting on Costen’s work is outside the purview of this essay, it does allow us one more example of the difference Gomes points to between optimism and hope. In the end, for many African Americans who claim Christianity as their spiritual path to God, the hist Sunday of Advent might be the best one of all to mine the history, the struggle, the successes, the faith, and yes, the hope of a people, even in the face of a ravaging pandemic. This hist Sunday may give us a chance to testify to the larger Christian family about a God who specializes in changing circumstances that are dire. That witness is beyond optimism. It is the very substance of our faith.

    Notes 1 Barbara Holmes, Race and the Cosmos: An Invitation to View the World Differently (Trinity Press International, 2002, passim). 2 Peter Gomes, The Good Book: Reading the Bible with Mind and Heart (HarperOne, 2002), 181. A more contemporary book that reflects Gome’s definition of hope can be seen in Leah Gunning Francis, Ferguson & Faith: Sparking Leadership & Awakening Community (Chalice Press, 2015). 3 Gomes, 185. 4 Gomes, 182. 5 Marvin McMickle, ed., Audacity of Faith: Christian Leaders Reflect on the Election of Barack Obama (Judson Press), 2009. 6 Wendell L. Griffen, The Fierce Urgency of Prophetic Hope (Judson Press, 2017). 7 Melva Costen, “African American Advent and Christmas Spirituals,” in Journal for Preachers 16, no 1 (Advent 1992), 2-10, 2.

  • Protagonist Corner [44 no 1 Advent 2020 ]

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    Protagonist Corner

    Accidental Preacher: A Memoir by Will Willimon An On-Going Imagination: A Conversation About Scripture, Faith, and. the Thickness of Relationship by Walter Brueggemann and Clover Reuter Beal

    Joseph S. Harvard Durham, North Carolina

    Two Guys and. a Vocation It is satisfying when you discover something that is special, like a movie, a meal, a painting, etc., and you can introduce it to your friends. I am very grateful for the opportunity of introducing you to a couple of extraordinary books which I have found to be enlightening and inspiring. In their reflections, Walter Brueggemann and Will Willimon have invited us into their lives and ministries. They are two of the most prolific writers about faith and Scripture, with 200 books between them along with numerous articles and sermons, which is utterly amazing! Their contributions to the lives of individuals and faith com­ munities are tremendous. The impact of The Prophetic Imagination by Brueggemann and Resident Aliens, co-authored by Willimon and Stanley Hauerwas, continue to help us find our way as people of faith. It is refreshing to hear from authors about what makes them tick. In the interest of transparency, I want you to know that I am not an independent observer. Walter and Will have been friends for over 40 years, which has given me the opportunity to observe and interact with them up close and personal. In 2001, I was a Campbell Scholar at Columbia Theological Seminary where Walter was teaching. I asked to sit in his course studying Scripture. I was amazed at the hist class when all the students arrived early and were in their seats when the professor entered. This kept happening, so I asked a student what was going on. She responded, “It’s the prayer! No one wants to miss his prayer!” Each class began with an inspiring prayer which felt like a very personal conversation about things that mattered (Awed to Heaven: Rooted in Earth: Prayers of Walter Brueggemann). Following the prayer, Brueggemann entered into a conversation with the students about the readings for the class. He answered their questions and pushed them to give expression to their thoughts. I would grow impatient as I had come to receive wisdom from his lecture—“Come on, Walter! Let’s get to the good stuff’—until it dawned on me that this was the good stuff. He was tutoring these future pastors and church leaders in how to say what they believed. They would be called on to respond to questions of faith on the run, when they encounter a parishioner in the grocery store or in a hospital room, with no time to consult The Institutes or the letters of Paul. What a good way to prepare for ministry! I bring this up because this goes to the heart of Brueggemann’s understanding of God and his role as a teacher/theologian. An On-Going Imagination is a conversation between Brueggemann and Clover Reuter Beal, a former student and friend who is now a pastor. She asks him questions, and they discuss the development of his thought and understanding of his calling with the honesty and openness you would expect


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    from good friends engaging in conversation. The method and work of Walter Brueggemann is dialogical. He believes we live our lives in dialogue with the text, the neighbor, the stranger, and God because “the God of the Bible is a dialogical character, that is, a character that takes on life and form in dialogical relationship” (p. 46). When you pick up this book, make sure your seat belt is fastened! His theological perspective is not of a God who is tied down in our traditional terms, but a God who is “in recovery,” who is “barely good enough,” who is “irascible” and “inscrutable,” a God who has “agency” and is about the business of articulating into existence an alternative world. Where does he get this stuff? It grows out of a serious, honest, faithful dialogue with the text. The words of the spiritual seem appropriate for his work: “Order My Steps in Your Word!” There is much more for you to discover, like a fascinating answer to the question about whether we use the terms “Old Testament” or “Hebrew Scripture” in worship. I must admit I am still trying to understand what is crucial for Brueggemann in “The God of the Text” in which he asserts that God exists “in, with, and under the text… and nowhere else.” Then along comes the Accidental Preacher, whose story is deep, delightful, pain­ fully honest, and vintage Willimon. He gives an account of how this amazing God has been at work in his life. He describes himself as a “peddler of words.” He does this in the belief that words make a difference; they call into existence alternative reality that gives us hope and courage on this journey. Will is a thoroughgoing Southerner down to his love of and appreciation of place and the importance of relationships. On a lighter note, Will’s love of shrimp and grits precedes their current status as a delicacy! By the grace of God, he has transcended his culture without losing respect and love for the people, place, and things that shaped him. We both migrated from South Carolina to the “Nawth! ” This gives us a head start in understanding sin! We became colleagues and friends when I was a pastor at the First Presbyterian Church in Durham and he was Dean of Duke Chapel. We worked together to help build community in our city and lift the lives of our neighbors in need. Will is a fantastic teller of stories. I was able to witness many of the remarkable accounts in the book. In his encounters with students, faculty, staff, and neighbors, there is always a sense that something is going on that “enlightened minds” don’t understand. For example, his relating of experiences in the presence of Oscar Dantzler, the custodian of Duke Chapel; Terry Sanford, president of Duke; fraternity guys at Duke; and Methodist clergy in Alabama are fascinating. But for Will, it is most often more than meets the eye or ear; God who enters the human story is at work. In most of the stories, what happens is a revelation to Will. It is only in retrospect that he realizes God at work in, for example, his surprising move from Duke to be a Methodist Bishop in Alabama, where he winds up confronting the Governor and Senator Jeff Sessions on the matter of justice for immigrants. A mentor of mine, Doug Oldenburg, died recently. He had been president of Co­ lumbia Theological Seminary and served as Moderator of the General Assembly of the PCUSA, which is the highest elected office in the denomination. As he traveled the world visiting congregations, seminaries, and hospitals, he was fond of quoting this verse: “We drink from wells we did not dig; we are warmed by hies we did not

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    kindle” (Deut. 6:11). Walter and Will are deeply grateful for all those who dug the wells from which they drink. They acknowledge family, friends, and teachers on whose shoulders they stand. I was amazed to hnd that Will and I share the same mentor. When Will was a college student, Dr. Carlyle Marney, pastor of the Myers Park Baptist Church in Charlotte, was Religious Emphasis Speaker at Wofford College. He made a huge impression on Will. I had a similar experience in my second year of seminary when Marney appeared and challenged us to be bold in proclaiming God’s justice and love in the segregated south. Marney had a voice that sounded like God— “I tried to, but no luck.” A few months after the Wofford appearance, Will was traveling in Europe and visited a museum in Amsterdam. And who should he bump into but Carlyle Marney. A poignant conversation over a couple of drinks with Marney was a game changer. (And you don’t think God is what Walter calls a ‘trickster”!) In addition, Karl Barth has had a major influence on Will, and his work is full of references to Barth. What were Walter’s influences? When he was a sophomore in college, a favorite professor suggested that he read Reinhold Niebuhr. He spent that afternoon in the library reading Moral Man and Immoral Society, and then he read them again! It was a game changer, and he considers himself a Niebuhrian today. There is a fascinating connection: Walter is influenced by Reinhold Niebuhr. Recently, the Reverend William Barber, a tremendous hgure in the current struggle for justice in the US, wrote an endorsement for the -10,hAnniversary edition of Pro­ phetic Imagination by Brueggemann. Reverend Barber explains how indebted he is to Bruggeman’s vision in the book which has shaped his ministry. He carries a copy of the book with him wherever he goes. I am told that Martin Luther King, Jr., kept a copy of Jesus and. the Disinherited by Howard Thurman with him wherever he went. All of which leads to the question, what do you carry in your backpack? Near the end of their conversation in An On-Going Imagination, Clover Reuter Beal asked Walter a poignant question: “What keeps you going?” At hist, he responded with some humor: “Partly, I don’t have anything else to do.” But then he says, “I think it is honest to say that I am propelled by my sense of vocation as a scholar and interpreter.” It becomes evident that vocation is at the heart of what inspires and energizes these two remarkable “peddlers of the word.” They are a reminder and an invitation to keep before us the challenge that God has a vocation for each of us. Will is insistent that his vocation is God given. He also has the keen eye for how God uses all kinds of folks to get the work done. The notion that a boy with a tough start from South Carolina would be called upon to be a messenger of the Gospel in all the places and to the people where he landed seems like an accident or absurd. But Walter and Will believe that God the “trickster” has been up to this “vocationing” business for a long time. Don’t take their word for it; it is right there in the text. So let me encourage you to engage in dialogue with these two guys and the text about their vocations and yours. A warning: you may not be the same!

  • Stand Firm

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    Stand Firm

    Galatians 5:1,13-25

    Jill Duffield

    The Presbyterian Outlook, Richmond, Virginia

    “I don’t do purple,” she said. The lone African-American pastor on the panel in the workshop titled “Preaching and Politics” stated emphatically, “I don’t do purple. ” Her declaration came in response to a question about how best to navigate preaching and teaching in a “purple congregation” with people on either side of the political divide. At this point in the program, I was standing at the podium, moderating the questions, almost all of which were about balancing the pastoral and prophetic, speaking truth to power without offending the powerful in the pews, and working for justice while keeping the peace. Other panelists had responded with things I have often advised myself. Things like “Stick to the text,” “Come along side the news, but don’t name it directly,” “Of­ fer opportunities for conversation.” In other words, surf the purple waves. Preach to the purple people. Praise the big purple tent. That was the repeated theme until we came to my colleague who said, “I don’t do purple.” The room got quiet… until someone on the front row said, “What do you mean, you don’t do purple?” My colleague said something like she didn’t have time for purple in the current context. She didn’t mention Sandra Bland or Freddie Gray, Ferguson or Charleston. She just said she couldn’t afford to preach purple anymore. And her unqualified proclamation stuck with me because I am practically painted in purple, immersed in purple, so steeped in purple, stained with purple that I often fail to even notice it. Purple, it would seem, is my favorite color. All things in moderation, I say. I am a bridge person, I say. Find the middle way, I say. The way, that if I am honest, has often been the path of least resistance and not the way of Jesus Christ. I’ve prayed fervently to the patron saint of purple: Saint Civility. If we can just be civil, respectful. No need to get angry. Let’s sit down and talk this out and take our time and get everyone on the same page and be reasonable and trust the process and make some compromises and remember that the arc of history bends toward justice and all will be well… eventually. I built a purple house and painted the walls lavender and planted wisteria all around it for good measure. So that day, my friend who doesn’t do purple caught me off guard because she reminded me that the way of Jesus is no purple primrose path. It is the way that leads to the cross, and there is nothing civil or measured or respectful or compromising about crucifixion. My colleague who ruefully said “I don’t do purple” brought to mind a Presbyterian pastor who was purple before purple was cool. He argued—it is documented in the minutes, during a North Carolina presbytery meeting— yes, let Martin Luther King, Jr. speak at Montreat Conference Center, so long as a segregationist got a chance to present, too. How balanced and reasonable and civil and sensible and how utterly counter to the Gospel of Jesus Christ who says to take a stand for the oppressed. Stand up for those beaten down and stood upon. Stand with those on the margins. Go stand


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    in front of Pharaoh and tell him to let my people go. Stand on the promises of God, stand in the breach on behalf of those too long thrown into it. That’s the only middle ground faithful to the way, the truth, and the life of Jesus Christ. Jesus did not set us free to be purple and civil and polite and unoffensive and placating and lukewarm. Those of us washed in the blood of the lamb are free from sin and freed for service to the Most High God, and that means taking a stand, stand­ ing up for Jesus and standing with those with whom Jesus stood: the least, the last, the abused and ostracized, those begging for mercy and weeping in lament. The Presbyterian Outlook marks its 200th year this year, and looking back in our pages reveals how unfaithful not recognizing the color purple can be. Seeking a middle way, a reasonable compromise, a sensible solution, we spread the rhetoric of faithful paternalism. Be a benevolent slave holder, we wrote. Treat those whom you own well as that is pleasing to God, we preached. Evangelize and baptize those whom you enslave, then separate families and sell them, we justified. Now, I know what you may be thinking. Remember the context. Put this in its time and place. Consider the alternatives. They may well have been progressive for their time. Isn’t that chastening to those of us who would label ourselves such today? I know it chastens me. It is easy to be purple and civil and in the middle when the boot is not on our neck, the policies aren’t truncating our futures, and the prejudices aren’t rendering our children dead in the streets. Thanks be to God, we’ve been given a better way. We are no longer enslaved to the flesh-devouring ways of the world because Christ has set us free. Free from sin. Free from death. Free from fear. Free from the tyranny of self and the reign of any ruler but God. Christ has set us free for freedom’s sake. We are freed to take a stand, to stand for love of neighbor, for a generosity of life-giving justice, for the peace that passes understanding, and the joy that comes in serving God and God only. We are freed for a kindness that upends cruelty and reveals the divine dignity and worth of every human being. We are freed for self-control that looks to the interest of others and refrains from vengeance even as it seeks to be patient, forgiving, compassionate, and merciful with all people. We are freed for gentleness with the weak and with one another. We are freed for faithfulness in a world overflowing with evil and idols, suffering and sorrow. Freed to call out the purple of privilege. Freed to be immersed in the purple of penitence that not only confesses, but repents and does better. Freed to be awash in the purple of preparation that not only welcomes the baby Jesus, but reminds to be ready to face Christ when he returns to separate the sheep and the goats. Beloved in Christ: it is time to take a stand. There is no middle ground when it comes to injustice and hate, oppression and white supremacy. In the wake of Charles­ ton and Charlottesville, Pittsburgh and Christ Church, it is time to take a stand, and stand, firm in the faith of Jesus who stands with the persecuted and the demonized, the othered and scapegoated. In the wake of family separation and mass incarceration, it is time to take a stand and. stand firm in the faith of Jesus who welcomed the children and came to set the captives free. In the wake of hate crimes and xenophobia, it is time to take a stand and stand him in the faith of Jesus whose family fled persecution and sought asylum in a foreign land, a man of color beaten, spit upon, and hanged on a tree. In the wake of our salvation and sending, it is time to take a stand, and stand

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    firm in the faith of Jesus who set us free to be ministers of real reconciliation, those who do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with the One who always, always, always stands against evil and stands with the suffering and the oppressed. Yesterday, June 17, marked four years to the day when nine of our siblings in Christ were gunned down at Emmanuel AME Church in Charleston, SC. Tomorrow, Juneteenth, commemorates the day in Texas, 1865, when the abolition of slavery was announced. So I ask you, in between, on June 18, in between, Where do we stand?