Author: Sara Palmer

  • Preaching as an act of friendship: plain speaking as a sign of the kingdom

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    Preaching as an Act of Friendship:

    Plain Speaking as a Sign of the Kingdom

    Gail R. O’Day Candler School of Theology, Emory University, Atlanta, Georgia

    While much sermon preparation energy goes into trying to determine what one will say in a sermon, it is not always clear that an equal amount of energy goes into trying to determine what one will do in a sermon. In his preaching textbook, The Witness of Preaching, Thomas Long names these two parts of the preaching preparation process as identifying the sermon’s “focus” and its “function.”1 Long’s delineation of focus and function is an important move in helping preachers think about what a sermon does, yet my experience in listening to semester after semester of student sermons (as well as Sunday after Sunday of sermons in churches) suggests that clarity about what a sermon does remains a less intentional part of sermon preparation than attention to what a sermon says. Preachers fall back on a very limited repertoire of sermon functions, “to challenge,” “to teach,” “to call to change,” “to inspire,” without attending either to the fit between one of these conventional functions and the specifics of the biblical text for the day or to the larger pastoral and theological functions of a preaching ministry to which a sermon can give expression. In this essay, I want to focus on one of these larger pastoral and theological functions by reflecting on preaching through the language and lens of friendship. In contemporary culture, we tend to think of friendship as something one does, but in the ancient world, friendship was equally about what and how one speaks. To be a friend was to speak openly and boldly. The Gospel of John provides a good entry point into this ancient understanding of friendship.

    Plain Speaking At the end of the Farewell Discourse, Jesus says to his disciples, “I have said these things to you in figures of speech. The hour is coming when I will no longer speak to you in figures, but will tell you plainly of the Father.” The disciples respond to Jesus’ saying with the affirmation, “Yes, now you are speaking plainly, not in any figures of speech! Now we know that you know all things, and do not need to have anyone question you; by this we believe that you came from God.” Yet Jesus does not welcome the disciple’s enthusiastic affirmation and profession of knowledge. Instead, Jesus ironically rebukes the disciples for their words, “Do you now believe? The hour is coming, indeed it has come, when you will be scattered, each one to his home, and you will leave me alone” (16:25-32). This exchange is Jesus’ last teaching to his disciples. It is followed immediately by his prayer in John 17 and then by the story of his arrest, trial, and death (John 1819 ). At first glance, it seems odd that Jesus should focus his last teaching on how he speaks, on the difference between speaking in figures (paroimiai) and speaking plainly (parresid) as an indication of the arrival of the hour, the decisive eschatological moment. Elsewhere in the Gospel, the hour is used to refer to the time of Jesus’ death, resurrection, and ascension (e.g., 13:1 ; 17:1), and of signs and wonders like the raising of the dead and the final judgement (5:28, “Do not be astonished at this, for the hour


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    is coming when all who are in their graves will hear his Tthe Son of Man’si voice, and will come out—those who have done good to the resurrection of life, and those who have done evil, to the resurrection of condemnation”). Is Jesus really intending to identify plain speaking as a sign of the arrival of the hour and the eschatological age? And is the disciples’ flawed comprehension of Jesus’ words really a harbinger of their abandonment of Jesus at the time of his death? A closer glance suggests that this is indeed what Jesus is suggesting: that plain speaking is a sign of the eschatological age. Jesus rebukes the disciples for their easy embrace of his declaration about plain speaking because they do not recognize its eschatological significance.

    Plain Speaking as the Language of Friendship In the Hellenistic world in which the New Testament was written, friendship was an important topic in moral discourse and its characteristics were the subject of much philosophical and ethical reflection.2 A central concern of philosophers like Plutarch and Cicero was how to distinguish between a true friend, and its opposite, the flatterer (kolax). One could recognize a friend by that person’s “frankness of speech” or “plain speaking,” parrêsia, the same word used by Jesus in 16:25 and the disciples in 16:29.3 Frank or plain speaking was an attribute of friendship, because the one who spoke plainly was understood to be trustworthy and speaking in the friend’s best interest, not speaking, as a flatterer would, for one’s own interest or betterment. As Plutarch expressed it, “Frankness of speech, by common report and belief, is the language of friendship especially (as an animal has its peculiar cry), and on the other hand, that lack of frankness is unfriendly and ignoble ” 4 Just as an animal can be recognized by its distinctive sound, so, too, can a friend be recognized by his or her distinctive frank speech. The theme of friendship and frankness of speech was important in several contexts in the New Testament world. One was the patron-client/monarch-subject relationship, in which the patron or monarch (the benefactor) needed to be attentive to whether “friends” were speaking honestly and openly, or whether they were engaging in flattery to better their own situation. A second context was that of philosophical instruction, where frank speech was a mark of honest dialogue and instruction. A third context was philosophical debates, where frank speech was linked with freedom of speech and could involve taking unpopular or risky positions for the sake of intellectual honesty and truth.5 If we read the conversation between Jesus and his disciples in John 16 against this background, the intensity of Jesus’ rebuke of his disciples’ response to his words about “plain speaking” begins to make more sense. Jesus rebukes his disciples because in their quick and easy assent to his words, he recognizes the behavior of a flatterer instead of that of a friend. Jesus’ rebuke suggests that he suspects the disciples are saying what they think Jesus wants to hear, not what they really believe. To prove they are flatterers and not friends, Jesus links their false words with what seems to be a much more serious offense, their abandonment of him at his hour. Yet this link makes sense if we think of the disciples’ words in 16:29-30 as the words of flatterers (and not friends): their actions at his hour, their scattering “each one to his home,” simply put into action what their words here already reveal. The disciples are interested only in furthering their own ends.


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    The contrast between friend and flatterer, between plain speaker and false speaker, is pivotal for the Gospel of John because Jesus is the ultimate plain speaker in John and hence, the ultimate friend. This is demonstrated most vividly in the juxtaposition of Jesus’ interrogation by the high priest (18:19-24) and Peter’s “interrogation” around the charcoal fire in the high priest’s courtyard (18:15-18,25-27). Jesus’ testimony at his interrogation is bold and frank, “I have always spoken openly (parrësia) to the world; I have always taught in synagogues and in the temple, where all the Jews come together. I have said nothing in secret.” Peter’s “testimony,” by contrast, is really an anti-testimony. Whereas Jesus responds to direct questions with frank, plain speech about his habit of frank speech, Peter responds to direct questions with lies and denial s. Plutarch’s analogy of the sound of frank speech and the distinctiveness of each animal’s cry is appropriate to this situation: Jesus’ words readily identify him as a friend, whereas Peter’s words are not the sounds of a friend, but of one who is only interested in his own ends, the flatterer.

    Plain Speaking as the Language of Love The Greek word for “friend” is philos, from the verb phileo, to love. John 15:1215 makes explicit the connection between love and friendship:

    This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. You are my friends if you do what I command you. I do not call you servants any longer, because the servant does not know what the master is doing; but I have called you friends, because I have made known to you everything that I have heard from the Father.

    “To lay down one’s life for a friend,” like plain speaking, belonged to the philosophical discussion of friendship in the Greek and Roman world:

    . . . the virtuous man’s conduct is often guided by the interests of his friends and of his country, and that he will if necessary lay down his life in their behalf… And this is doubtless the case with those who give their lives for others; thus they choose great nobility for themselves.6

    This does not mean that any more people actually met this friendship ideal in the Greek and Roman world than do in the contemporary world, but that John’s readers would have recognized the invitation to give one’s life as the invitation to friendship. Yet the readers of the Gospel also know that here and in John 10:17-18 (“For this reason the Father loves me, because I lay down my life in order to take it up again. No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord”), Jesus is not simply using the idioms of well-known moral discourse. The reader of the Gospel knows that Jesus has already enacted this discourse in the gift of his life on the cross. Again John shows us how Jesus is the ultimate friend, because he lives out the ultimate ideal of friendship. John 15:12-15 does more, however, than point to the offer of one’s life as a sign of the fullness of love that defines friendship. Jesus’ words here importantly link this act of love with Jesus’ own plain speaking, and extend the identity of friends to the disciples themselves. Jesus says that he calls the disciples friends because “I have


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    made known to you everything that I have heard from the Father.” The precise word parresia is not used here, but Jesus’ words nonetheless confimi that this is the practice that has informed his teaching. He has held nothing back in what he has shared with his disciples, and through the openness of his speaking, he has formed the disciples as friends. The disciples have been welcomed into a community of friends in which one speaks frankly and openly and in which one loves with the fullness of one’s life. Through Jesus’ plain speaking, he enables the disciples “to participate in the intimacy and trust of the Father, by means of which they acquire that Openness’ (parrësia) which is the privilege of a free man and a friend.”7 Jesus’ plain speaking, through which he treats the disciples as peers and not as servants, equips them to lead a life of love and friendship themselves. The importance of plain speaking as the language of love and friendship was recognized by early interpreters of John. Ambrose, the fourth century bishop and teacher of Augustine, turned to John 15:15 as a defining text for the practice of Christian friendship:

    Let us reveal our bosom to [a friend], and let him reveal his to us. Therefore, he said, I have called you friends, because all that I have heard from my Father, I have made known to you. Therefore a friend hides nothing, if he is true; he pours forth his mind, just as the Lord Jesus poured forth the mysteries of the Father.8

    By speaking openly to his disciples, Jesus invites and enables them to be friends— with him, with one another, with God, for the world. Jesus invites and empowers them to love one another as he has loved them. This love is shaped by the gift of his life, but it is equally shaped by the gift of open and plain speaking. This dual dimension of the invitation to friendship can be seen in the juxtaposition of the risen Jesus’ conversations with Peter and the beloved disciple in John 21. Both Peter and the beloved disciple receive the call, “Follow me,” in these closing scenes of the Gospel. Since this call is the paradigmatic call to discipleship, its use affirms that here we have two models of love and friendship, both of which are authorized by the risen Jesus. Throughout the exchange between Jesus and Peter (21:15-19), Peter insists that he loves Jesus as a friend {philo se). It may not be too much of a stretch to say that, given Peter’s lack of plain speaking in the Gospel story, Jesus is not confident that Peter’s friendship can be measured and known in Peter’s words (and hence Jesus’ threefold questioning). Rather, Peter’s friendship will be measured and known by his actions. When Peter affirms his love and friendship for the third time, Jesus concludes the conversation with a prophecy of Peter’s death (vv. 18-19). Peter will show his love and friendship by giving his life for the sheep, just like Jesus did. Peter will enact the noble ideal of friendship. The friendship of the beloved disciple, by contrast, will be marked by plain speaking, not by laying down his life for his friends. John 21:21-23 suggests that this disciple did not die the death of a martyr, like Peter, but instead lived into old age. His love and friendship can be measured and known by the plain and open speaking of his testimony, “This is the disciple who is testifying to these things and has written them and we know that his testimony is true.” The beloved disciple enacts Jesus’ invitation


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    to friendship by passing on the stories and traditions about Jesus around which the Gospel takes shape. The beloved disciple tells all that he knows just as Jesus told all that he knew. The beloved disciple expresses his love for the community through the gift of his speech, just as Peter expresses his love through the gift of his life.

    Plain Speaking as the Language of the Kingdom The Gospel of John helps us to consider the power and possibility inherent in plain speaking. Plain speaking, characterized by openness, boldness, and frankness, is an act of friendship because through such speech one enacts the love and openness that characterized Jesus’ own ministry. Jesus did not lord his knowledge over his disciples, dispensing what he knew as an exercise of power that reinforced his own authority. Rather, in 15:15, Jesus calls his disciples friends, not servants, because knowledge and truth are to be shared openly, not hoarded. Plain speaking binds him to his disciples— and them to him and to God—because they know what Jesus knows. He invites the disciples into friendship through his plain speaking, and then invites them to reciprocate this plain speaking by being friends themselves. The disciples are invited to love as Jesus loves—and that love involves speaking openly and boldly what one knows of God and God’s hopes for the world. What does this mean for the theological and pastoral function of our preaching? It suggests that at least one possible function for preaching is to be a friend in one’s preaching.9 Note carefully that I did not say that one possible function is to be friendly in one’s sermon. There is plenty of friendliness in much of the church’s preaching— jokes, chatter, anecdotes told simply to make a congregation smile or to get them on one’s good side, tangential personal asides—but friendliness is not the same thing as gospel friendship. If one were to have as a sermon function, “to be a friend,” much of this friendly chatter would disappear, replaced by the plain speaking that characterized Jesus’ testimony before the high priest and the beloved disciple’s testimony to his community. One would tell the whole truth boldly and openly, remembering that plain speaking is as significant an act of friendship as the laying down of one’s life. To be a friend in a sermon is to tell the truth. To tell what one thinks people want to hear is flattery, not friendship, and the gospel pull of friendship is lost behind careful words and overly judicious phrases. Friendship requires bold, frank, open speech, a speech that is measured and assessed by its enactment of love, not its demonstration of power. The plain speaking of friendship, as embodied by Jesus in John, is always reciprocal, always contains within it the invitation to friendship for those who hear. Jesus is friend, but Jesus also called his disciples friends. A community of friends was created around and out of Jesus’ plain speaking. A community of friends can be created around and out of the preacher’s plain speaking. It may help us to claim friendship as a model for what a sermon can do if we remember that Jesus linked such plain speaking with the arrival of the eschatological hour (16:25), of the time when the inbreaking of God’s kingdom is made visible. Plain speaking, the language of friendship, is the language of the kingdom, because in our plain speaking we announce with boldness the fullness of God’s love and presence. Or to put it another way, each time that we preach with boldness, as a friend, we claim God’s eschatological possibilities for that moment. We proclaim that in this moment, in this act of friendship, God’s kingdom may indeed be near.


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    Notes

    1. Thomas G. Long, The Witness of Preaching (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1989). 2. See the general discussion of friendship in the Gospel of John in Gail R. O’Day, “Jesus as Friend in the Gospel of John,” Interpretation 58 (2004): 144-157; Luke Timothy Johnson, “Making Connections: The Material Expression of Friendship in the New Testament,” Interpretation 58 (2004): 158-171 ; John T. Fitzgerald, Greco-Roman Perspectives on Friendship, SBLRBS 34 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1997). 3. See, e.g., Plutarch, How to Tell a Flatterer from a Friend (Adul.Amic.) and Cicero, On Friendship (Laelius; de amicitid). 4. Plutarch, How to Tell a Flatterer from a Friend, 51. 5. See O’Day, “Jesus as Friend in the Gospel of John,” 153. 6. Aristotle, Eth.nic. 9.8.9. 7. Rudolf Schnackenburg, The Gospel according to St. John, 3 vols. (New York: Crossroad, 1982), 3.110. 8. Ambrose, De ofßciis ministrorum 3.22.135. 9. See Charles L. Campbell, The Word before the Powers: An Ethic of Preaching (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2002). 157-69. I am grateful to Chuck for suggesting the topic of friendship and preaching to mc.

  • Dancing on the distant shore of chaos: Exodus 15:1-6, 11-13, 17-18, 20-21; Romans 8:31-35, 36-39

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    Dancing on the Distant Shore of Chaos 1

    Exodus 15:1-6, 11-13, 17-18, 20-21; Romans 8:31-35, 36-39

    James S. Lo wry

    Shandon Presbyterian Church, Columbia, South Carolina

    Oh, how we danced!

    Not so much on the night we were wed.

    We were wed at the Mount Dearborn Church

    in Great Falls, South Carolina. The reception followed in the Mount Dearborn Church Fellowship Hall. There wasn’t much dancing in those days in the Mount Dearborn Church Fellowship Hall. Maybe that’s changed now. Maybe liturgical reform has taken hold at Mount Dearborn Church as it has in other places. The people of God are beginning to remember again how we once danced as an act of worshipdanced as an expression of joy… danced as thanksgiving before God.

    Like the time Miriam and the other women took out the timbrels and danced. When they reached the far shore of chaos they danced.

    It was an act of worship. It was an expression of thanksgiving. It was an edict of endearment.

    We didn’t dance at the Mount Dearborn Church on our wedding day; but, oh, how we danced in our courtship:

    socks in the gym at Great Falls High; penny loafers in the Bowery at Myrtle Beach; barefoot in the pavilion at Ocean Drive.

    We were there, Martha and I, and we’re of the age to have been at the beach when beach music was being born… dancing and dancing


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    and dancing…

    dancing to tunes by

    Bill Haley; Chubby Checker; Little Richard.

    Those were the days. We thought they’d never end. They were our days of innocence.

    We didn’t know it at the time, of course, but we were dancing on the near shore of chaos. Chaos, for us, hadn’t happened yet; but it was about to begin.

    We were still in the glory days that followed the second world war. Our world and our church have not regained what we imagined to be the innocence of the 1950’s when our world was safe and the church was booming

    Back then, we danced and danced:

    Bebop-aloumop-alop-bamb-boom… Tootie fruitie, alrootie.

    As in the opening recollection of Pat Conroy’s novel, Beach Music,2 Conroy’s character, Jack McCall, retells the story of the night he fell in love with Shyla Fox.

    Jack McCall is retelling the story to Laura, the only daughter and only child of Jack and Shyla. He’s told the story to Laura so often Laura can fill in details and correct her father in his own story. The story as Jack McCall retells it to his daughter is of high school seniors in the 1950’s dancing and dancing on the porch of a beach house


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    just minutes before it was washed to sea in a storm.

    For the novelist, the scene is a not-very-subtle symbolic picture of dancing on the near shore of chaos.

    The world of those high school seniors was, indeed, about to collapse into upheaval and turmoil… explode, more like. The upheaval and turmoil centered, for the novel, in Shyla jumping to her death from the Silas Pearlman Bridge which spans the Cooper River high over the Charleston Harbor. Between the beach party and the suicide, Pat Conroy’s novel weaves its way, sometimes skillfully and sometimes not so skillfully, through one drama after another. Some of the dramas are as cosmic as the Holocaust and the Vietnam War and some are as personal as alcoholism and dysfunctional families.

    It is comparatively easy to do as Pat Conroy has done and describe what it is like to dance on the near shore of chaos… to describe what it is like to dance when chaos is about to begin and then to describe in graphic detail what it is like when chaos sets in.

    It is less easy, it seems to me, to describe what it is like to dance on the distant shore of chaos…

    to describe what it is like to dance when chaos will have come to an end; but that is the subject of today’s Old Testament lesson;


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    and that is the subject of this sermon:

    to tell how once our people danced on the far shore of chaos so in retelling the story we might be dreaming of dancing again on the far shore of chaos,

    no matter the form of chaos.

    “The Lord is my strength and my might,” sang Moses in his poem.

    “Sing to the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously,” sang Miriam as she and the women danced, and danced, and danced.

    Through this poem and song of the parting of the Red Sea, dancing on the distant shore of chaos has become a vision… a dream of how the people of God shall be when, at last, the people of God are set free. Many scholars agree, this poem and song of Moses and Miriam is the oldest portion of scripture in existence:3

    “The Lord is a warrior…” went the poem.

    “Horse and rider he has thrown into the sea,” went the song.

    Think of it. The poem and song are the oldest Bible there is. As we have them now, the poem and song follow the telling of something that happened once a long, long time ago.

    More than that, in the telling of it, it is the story of something that happens now. Most of all,


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    in the hoping of it, it is the story of something that shall surely be.

    The vision is of the promise of God unfolding… a vision with roots run deep… deep… deep in the memory of God’s people.

    You remember the story that precedes the poem and song of which the poem and song are a retelling? Of course you do.

    God said to Moses, “Tell οΓ Pharaoh to let my people go.”

    Moses asked God, “When Pharaoh asks who sent me, what shall I tell him?”

    God said to Moses, “I am who I am, Tell Pharaoh I Am sent you.”

    Moses said to Pharaoh, “The God who is said to let his people go.”

    Ten plagues later… and Pharaoh let the people of God leave Egypt after 400 years of slavery. The plagues were to let Pharaoh know the God who is is serious. All Pharaohs must be told that the God who is is serious.

    But…on second thought, Pharaoh changed his mind.

    Having let the people go, Pharaoh sent his army with horse drawn chariots in hot pursuit, to trap the people of God with no way to cross the mighty Red Sea…


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    the mighty Red Sea, otherwise known as the Sea of Chaos.4

    You get the picture. The people of God trapped on the near shore of Chaos with the hordes of Pharaoh closing in.

    The God who is said to Moses who was, “Tell the people to go forward… hold forth your staff and tell the people to move… to move… to move forward… move into the raging Sea of Chaos.”

    That’s always the way of it. Consider the chaos in your life and in our life together. The command is always a summons to move into the midst of it.

    Like in the Presbyterian Church (USA) when the lines of division are drawn, and the seeds of schism are sown. More personally and much more painfully, it’s like when the preachers, one after the other, are called away,5 and the congregation must move headlong into the chaos.

    Let me say it again. This is more than the story of something that happened once a long time ago. This story of something that happened once has become a vision… a vision of something that happens now and more, it is a vision of something that is going to happen.

    You know the story? Of course you do. According to the story as it has been told to us and as we must tell it to our children, by a strong east wind that blew all night long, God parted the Sea of Chaos and the people of God walked safely through to the distant shore…


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    chaos all about on every side… but we walked on dry land all the way through.

    When the army of Pharaoh in their horse drawn chariots tried to pursue, they got stuck in the mud

    and the waters came crashing in.

    Poor Pharaoh. Poor Pharaoh’s men! Poor Pharaoh’s horses ! ! !

    They’re no match for the God who is.

    Don’t waste too much time worrying about the fairness of it all.

    As I said: What happened is important; The memory of what happened is even more important; and The telling of it is most important of all.

    It is in the telling of the story that we see now how the people of God are led now safely through the Sea of Chaos to sing and dance on the distant shore.

    Cataloging chaos is no problem. Chaos gets cataloged every morning for us in the morning paper and again every night on the evening news and again many Sundays from this pulpit… this pulpit and others like it for those congregations who are willing to move headlong, with faith, into chaos rather than try to use the faith to pretend there is no chaos.

    It seems we’re always standing on the near shore of some chaos or other. What could be more chaotic, to take the most obvious example, than warfare on one front


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    against an enemy that cannot be found; and on another front where, at best, the war was waged for motives based on faulty information, or, at worst, was waged for selfish gain.

    God said to Moses, “Tell ol’ Pharaoh to let my people go.”

    Generations later, with a different take on a similar issue Jesus said, “Pray for your enemies.”

    What could be more chaotic, to take another example, than facing an election with the electorate bitterly divided , | with each side paralyzed with fear and anger at the other, and all the while we are mostly governed by those who are nothing so much as they are mediocre. Understanding chaos is not very hard at all.

    God said to Moses, “When Pharaoh who governs you asks who sent you, tell him I am who I am… tell him I Am sent you.”

    Years later, with an altogether different take on the very same issue, Jesus said, “You shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free.”

    What could be more chaotic, to take yet another example, than not having enough jails to keep the underclass from rising up to take what belongs to us?

    Understanding chaos is not hard. Getting through chaos to justice and hope for all is the great thing.

    God said to Moses, “Stretch forth your staff and lead the people through.”


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    Many generations later Jesus said, “I was hungry and you fed me… thirsty and you gave me drink… naked and you clothed me… if you have done it to one of the least of these, you have done it to me.”

    What could possibly be more chaotic, to take more personal examples, than the rapid pace of change… change in schools… change in church… change in women’s roles… change in men’s roles… change in views of acceptable lifestyles… change in delivery of health care… change in neighbors… change in moving from age to agechange when there is a divorcechange when there is illness… change when there is a death….

    Understanding chaos is not very hard.

    Getting through chaos on solid ground is the great thing.

    God said to the east wind,

    “Blow, mighty east wind, blow… blow back the waters of chaos so that my people can walk through.” It has become a vision of what shall surely be.

    Many, many, many generations later the apostle, Paul, said, “I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.


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    It is a fresh take on the same vision.

    When the people of God got through to the distant shore of chaos, Moses recited a poem that he had written:

    “The Lord is my strength and my might,… he has become my salvation… Pharaoh’s chariots and his army… he has cast into the sea to be swallowed in chaos….”

    When the people of God got through to the distant shore of chaos, Miriam and the women rose up to sing and dance:

    “Sing to the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously.”

    It has become a vision of what shall surely be.

    Well, what do you think? Shall we dance?

    Notes

    1. This sermon, with minor adaptations, has been preached in many settings. As it appears here, it most resembles the form in which it was presented at morning worship for Shandon Presbyterian Church in Columbia, South Carolina, where I am interim pastor. 2. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1995. 3. Terence E. Fretheim, Exodus, Interpretation Series (Louisville, Ky.: John Knox Press, 1991), 161. 4. Ibid. 5. Pastors Timothy Hoyt-Duncan, Susannah Cook, and Lewis Galloway, all much beloved and each for positive reasons, left Shandon Church in the space of less than a year. With the exception of John Cook, Associate Pastor for Campus Ministry, the entire pastoral staff of Shandon Church is filled with interim and part-time pastors.

  • Alternate reality: envisioning preaching and ministry with the deaf

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    Alternate Reality: Envisioning Preaching

    and Ministry with the Deaf

    Raymond Meester

    Heritage Presbyterian Church, Lincoln, Nebraska

    When my father died, I asked his pastor not to say or imply in any way that my father—who was deaf all of his life—was now “healed” of his deafness and hearing the angels sing. The pastor probably wondered why I did not want my father now to be hearing. Most hearing people would probably think my request was rather strange; indeed, many people of the hearing world have the misconception that deaf people would want to hear, and that to be able to hear would be good news. This perspective of the hearing world has contributed to the church’s failure in reaching the deaf. Common knowledge among those who minister with the deaf is that less than ten percent of the deaf are churched. This is a minority group that has been overlooked by the church. Although my parents and four uncles and aunts were deaf, and I continue to be involved with the deaf community, I do not claim to be a spokesperson for that community. What I do claim and attempt to share here is a perspective that has been shaped by my experience of growing up and being involved in the deaf world. Two perspectives or models of deafness dominate thinking today. The first, the pathological or medical model, sees deafness as “abnormal.” Those who hold this perspective believe deaf people should live as “normal” (hearing) as possible; thus, they should be trained in oralism (speech reading and speaking) and should be prohibited from signing. Hearing “experts” advise parents of deaf children not to teach their children sign language for two reasons: that it will become a crutch and that the children will not learn to lip-read or speak. Proponents of this model argue that deaf children should be mainstreamed with hearing children, not segregated in a residential school for the deaf. These advocates do not recognize American Sign Language ( ASL) as a legitimate language, and some even contend that the deaf culture is nothing more than a deaf ghetto. One well-known proponent of this perspective was Alexander Graham Bell, whose mother and wife were deaf. They were oralists and shunned the use of sign language and the deaf culture. He founded the Volta Bureau, now the Alexander Graham Bell Association for the Deaf, an organization that supports oralism and lobbies against the use of ASL. Bell expressed his views in a paper entitled, “Memoir upon the Formation of a Deaf Variety of the Human Race.” His thesis was that if the deaf socialize among their own kind, they would marry, and create a “defective variety” of people. (Actually, only about ten percent of deaf couples have deaf children, and ninety percent of deaf children have hearing parents.) The other perspective is the cultural or holistic model. Among proponents of this model, it has become common practice to use the upper case D, as in Deaf, to designate those deaf people who see themselves as culturally deaf persons. Culturally Deaf persons regard themselves as members of a cultural and language minority group rather than as individuals with an audiological disability. This definition assumes that the Deaf are “a group of persons who share a common language (ASL) and a common


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    culture.”l “We do not view deafness as a sickness or handicap. We view it as a gift from God, which has led to the creation of a unique language and culture, worthy of respect and affirmation.”2 Members of Deaf culture see themselves as a cultural, linguistic minority group, similar to Korean Americans or Hispanic Americans. They refuse to identify themselves as disabled:

    Individuals who identify themselves as a part of this group would deny audiological deafness as the primary characteristic in defining who they are. For these individuals, “I’m deaf does not mean “I can’t hear.” It means “I dont hear.” This is a subtle but telling difference. If you can’t hear, you make auditory adjustments, using hearing aids and other assistive listening devices, to enhance your diminished hearing. Visual accommodations, while important, are secondary to the auditory. If you do not hear, you make visual adjustments to communication. ASL is a visual/gestural language. The signs convey meaning visually just as words convey meaning when we speak them.3

    In the church, the Deaf experience the hearing world’s ethnocentrism, the belief that one’s culture, one’s race, or ethnicity is superior to all others. The missionary movement, roughly from 1792 to well into the twentieth century,4 was fraught with an ethnocentrism that determined that Western culture was far superior to the culture of the natives. “If such people were to be won to Christ, they would first need to be ‘civilized’ in order to be evangelized.”5 The gospel became equated with the Western world’s way of living. Not only was the church to convert people to Christianity, the church saw the need to convert the native people to a “more civilized” culture, Western culture. Charles Kraft shares a conversation he had with a young Liberian man who “told me that his understanding of John 3:16 was something as follows: ‘God so loved Europeans that he accepts as Christian any African who turns his back on his own customs and becomes converted to a western culture.’” 6 Quite often the church’s ethnocentrism toward the Deaf community is unconscious . Neil Glickman captures this attitude well in his retelling of a Deaf woman’s experience at a funeral:

    During the eulogy, the preacher remarked that this man was now in Heaven with his Lord and he was now “communicating with his hands in his pockets.” He no longer needs to sign, the preacher continued. He can now speak. He can now hear. He is now healed. The preacher’s bias was caught by an astute deaf woman who wondered why he assumed that deaf people go to Heaven and learn speech, but not that hearing people go to Heaven and learn sign. “Does he think that when French people die, they go to Heaven and learn English?” she asked, annoyed also by his assumption that deaf people are defective and that when they die they are “healed” and become hearing people. This deaf woman, who had been a close friend of the deceased man, asked to say a few words at the gravesite. Speaking through an interpreter, she remarked that this man had signed all his life and that signing was his preferred mode of communication. She even suspected he


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    was already at work…developing yet another kind of sign, Heaven Sign Language (HSL).7

    When, like the preacher above, we declare that the Deaf can be healed only when they are physically and literally able to hear, that they will have perfection in heaven, i.e. be hearing in heaven, are we actually advocating that they give up their culture and language and live as members of the hearing world? Perhaps, to them, we seem to do so when, for instance, we ask them to include in their worship elements they may see as meaningful only for the hearing, such as music. A pathological understanding of deafness, such as the one described in the excerpt above, denies the Deaf of their culture, a culture in which they find meaning and purpose. Because they define themselves as Deaf, and see their deafness as a gift from God, we may, through actions that ignore their culture or language, seem to deny the Deaf of their personhood, their full humanity. As a church, we need to seek ways that not only respect, but affirm, the culture of Deafness. In our seeking, we need to be consciously aware of “audism,” a term created by Harlan Lane to describe how the pathological perspective has been oppressive for the Deaf. Lane defines audism as “the corporate institution for dealing with deaf people, dealing with them by making statements about them, authorizing views of them, describing them, teaching about them, governing where they go to school and, in some cases, where they live; in short, audism is the hearing way of dominating, restructuring , and exercising authority over the deaf community.”8 For many years, the audist powers have been oppressive for the Deaf. In 1880, delegates at the Milan Conference in Milan, Italy, decided that oralism should be the exclusive means of educating the deaf. What makes this decision so ludicrous is that there was only one deaf delegate at this conference ! And so for decades, deaf education in the U. S. was limited to that of oralism. Some states went so far as to pass laws prohibiting the use of sign language in the education of the deaf. Nebraska passed such a law in 1911. Other schools made it a school policy. But oralism is not the panacea the oralists want us to think it is. One study has indicated that children in oral programs fall far behind deaf children who learn ASL as a first language.9 Another study has discovered that “normally hearing teen-agers with no training lip-read as well as prelingually deaf youngsters of the same age who had taken ten years of lessons.” 10 Another practice of the audist establishment is mainstreaming, in which deaf children are educated with their hearing peers, rather than in segregated schools or classes. On the surface this may appear to be the solution, for one can make the argument that deaf children need to learn to live in a hearing world. However, successful mainstreaming requires a critical mass of deaf students so that social interaction will take place and expensive support services will be more cost effective. Often deaf students feel very isolated; according to a study by Claire Ramsey, over fifty percent of the schools that reported having a deaf and hard of hearing program served only one hearing impaired student:

    It is simply not possible for an individual child to develop and learn without access to and membership in groups, both local social groups (like classrooms ) and cultural groups with histories and practices… .From a theoretical


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    point of view, this means that deaf children in mainstreaming settings have little or no access to the power of social interaction to make learning possible.11

    Many studies have indicated different academic achievements for deaf children, and most of the studies indicate we are failing. The average deaf student leaves school with an academic achievement equivalent to the third grade level for a hearing person. Mainstreaming is a civil rights issue, not an educational issue. It may be politically correct, but can be educationally devastating. The audist establishment’s denigration of the language of the deaf, American Sign Language, further demonstrates the oppressive power of the dominant culture, the hearing community. The oralists’ case against ASL was that it was not a rich and full language; it could not communicate abstract thoughts, and was too “iconic.” One sign language dictionary had only about 2,000 words—proof, according to the oralists, that ASL was not a full and rich language. Many unknowingly accused sign language of not differentiating between nouns and verbs, or lacking in adjectives, adverbs, plurals, and tenses. Dominant cultures have had a history of viewing the language of a minority group as inferior, and often have refused to recognize the language of the minority group. One is reminded of what official American policy did to the American Indians when Indian children were forced to “mainstream” by attending white schools away from the reservations and were punished for using their native language. The work of Dr. William Stokoe dramatically changed the perception of ASL beginning in the 1950s. Stokoe’s research was innovative and significant in that he broke ASL into its components, much like a spoken language can be broken into morphemes. His research demonstrated that ASL was a rich and complex language and led to new recognition of the Deaf community as a legitimate culture. But audism continues to oppress the Deaf, and is a power the church as an institution must confront. As Walter Wink claims, the powers “are at one and the same time visible and invisible, earthly and heavenly, spiritual and institutional.”12 And in The Word before the Powers, Charles Campbell reminds us that Dietrich Bonhoeffer challenged us to see the demonic powers in the world, the principalities and powers of Ephesians 6. “The intransigence of other ‘isms,’ from classism to sexism to heterosexism,” he says, “has likewise called attention to the legion of powers that oppress people and hold them captive.”13 To Campbell’s list of “isms” that oppress, I add audism. I have seen several of what Campbell calls “strategies of the powers”14 used by the audist establishment. One such strategy is that of negative sanctions, which include school policies and state laws that prohibit the use of sign language in the education of the deaf, and professional advice to parents not to use sign language with their deaf children. Another strategy, isolation and division, may be seen in mainstreaming, which isolates deaf children and their parents. Demoralization has also been a very effective strategy. Parents who want their deaf children placed in residential schools for the deaf often have to fight the bureaucracy of local schools for their proper placement. The Individualized Education Plan (IEP), required for special education students, can be an overwhelming and intimidating process, especially when parents sit in a room filled with school professionals. Facing this wall of bureaucracy, one


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    family in Nebraska went to a lawyer to file a suit to have their child attend a residential school for the deaf, only to be told they needed to pay him $20,000 up front! The strategy of rewards and promises includes the promises of educators that deaf children can be “normal” by lip-reading and speech, and restricting the use of ASL. In my home is a concrete example of another strategy of the powers—a door that came from a classroom at the Iowa School for the Deaf, in Council Bluffs, Iowa. The door contains nine panes of opaque glass, three rows and three columns, at eye level. However, the center pane was later replaced with clear glass. This was to enable the school principal to observe the teachers, and any teacher using sign language was summarily fired! Against these kinds of strategies, the church must look for ways to bring wholeness to the Deaf and challenge and resist the powers of “audism.” Campbell makes a very strong case for preaching as an effective and appropriate form of nonviolent resistance against the power of audism.15 He suggests “a twofold movement: exposing the deadly ways of the powers and envisioning God’s new creation.”16 This parallels Brueggemann’s prophetic criticizing and offering an alternative perception of reality.17 Having exposed and criticized the audist powers, we now can envision God’s new creation. Such a vision for the deaf is found in Isaiah 35:

    Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped; then the lame shall leap like a deer, and the tongue of the speechless sing for joy.

    Written when Israel was in its Babylonian exile and the people were in need of hope, this powerful poetry paints a picture of the return of Israel to their homeland and the full participation of all of God’s people in the kingdom of God. Healing of the deaf comes when they are provided full participation in all that society provides. This is the vision, the alternate perception of reality that God provides God’s people. This vision of the full participation of the deaf is especially pertinent when we consider the ancient Mediterranean understanding of healing. One can make a distinction between our modern day concept of curing and the ancient world’s concept of healing. Curing is the elimination of the symptoms, if not the disease itself, whereas healing is the “elimination of the psychological, sensory, and experiential oppressiveness engendered by one’s medical circumstances.”18 For the deaf, curing would be gaining the ability to hear, but healing would be the ability to fully participate in hearing society. Such healing would include an appropriate education, with an option for segregated schools or classes for the deaf, full communication by the use of their language and interpreters, telephone devices and relay services, employment at their level of qualifications, and celebrating their history and culture. Perhaps the one place where the deaf came the closest to this alternate reality of an inclusive community was Martha’s Vineyard. The rate of deafness on this small island of about one hundred square miles was much higher than that of the mainland. Nora Ellen Groce describes a unique feature of the community: “In the nineteenth century, and presumably earlier, one American in every 5,728 was born deaf, but on


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    the Vineyard the figure was one in every 155.”19 Immigrants from the Kentish Weald in England settled Martha’s Vineyard. The majority of the Wealds’ marriage partners were chosen from a six- to eight-mile radius in England, creating a very small gene pool. When they migrated to Martha’s Vineyard, the gene pool remained small because of the island’s isolation. Groce believes that a recessive gene causing deafness came from an ancestor of some of the Vineyard’s settlers. Thus, the limited gene pool created a high incidence of deafness once the recessive gene appeared. As the Vineyard became less isolated because of increased mobility, the rate of deafness decreased until the last of its deaf citizens died in the mid-twentieth century.

    Unlike individuals similarly handicapped on the mainland, deaf Vineyarders were included in all of the community’s work and play situations. They were free to marry either hearing or deaf persons. According to tax records, they generally earned an average or above average income…and they were active in church affairs….This situation existed…for more than three centuries . This implies that the social attitude was fully accepting of deaf individuals and that it was firmly in place from the time that the first deaf man settled in Tisbury in the 1690s.20

    Many of the Vineyarders were bilingual, knowing both English and sign language. They learned it in their childhood, it was used in all situations, the deaf were full participants in all kinds of conversations, and “hearing members of the community were so accustomed to using signs that the language found its way into discussions even when no deaf people were present.”21 Thus the social isolation of the deaf created by the inability to hear spoken language did not exist on the island. The social isolation was eliminated by the fact that everyone spoke sign language. So why was life so good on the island, compared to the mainland and today? Because “they were just like everyone else.” Groce says, “Perhaps the best description of the status of deaf individuals on the Vineyard was given to me by an island woman in her eighties, when I asked about those who were handicapped by deafness when she was a girl. Oh,’ she said emphatically, ‘those people weren’t handicapped. They were just deaf.’”22 Because deafness was not seen as a handicap by the non-deaf, the deaf were seen and treated as full members of the community. It is within the church’s preaching and worship that prophetic imagination can come alive and where the church can “practice what it preaches.” In sermons, the powers can be named and the injustices can be revealed. In preaching, the alternate reality can be envisioned. And in its worship, the church can practice the inclusion of deaf people.23 In worship at Heritage Presbyterian Church, we include the deaf by use of interpreter. One member of the worship team is a highly qualified ASL interpreter. The skill of the interpreter can “make or break” a church’s deaf ministry. The interpreter is provided with the entire liturgy, including the sermon and words of the choir’s music, by the Thursday before worship. Religious, musical, and liturgical terms can be quite challenging, and getting the materials to the interpreter ahead of time is very valuable. Everything is interpreted, except for instrumental music. Since good sightlines are necessary for the language mode of the deaf, a place is reserved in the front of the sanctuary for them. The deaf participate in the liturgy, such as the hymns


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    and the people’s responses, by “copying” the signs of the interpreter. We are constantly fine-tuning our worship to make it as accessible as we can for the deaf. Worship does have power. Campbell reminds us that

    what the powers desire most from human beings is our worship; they claim to be the divine regents of the world and to offer us life if we will only serve them. In this context, it is not surprising that the fundamental practice of the redeemed community in the book of Revelation is worship. There is no more subversive act where the powers are concerned than praising the God of Jesus Christ, who has exposed and overcome them.24

    I witnessed the power of worship on September 7,2003. The Gospel reading for that Sunday included Jesus’ healing the deaf man (Mark 7:31-37). A few months earlier, a deaf member of Heritage Church had been served legal papers by a Lancaster County deputy sheriff, and later was arrested by the Lincoln city police. Shortly after he was released from jail, the man was arrested again, based on a false witness. A sign language interpreter was not present during any of his three encounters with law enforcement. I was convinced that if a sign language interpreter had been provided when he was served the legal papers, he would have understood the nature of the papers and avoided the arrest. Many thought this man’s civil rights were denied under the Americans with Disabilities Act. Thus, the focus of my sermon that Sunday was naming the powers of injustice, the local law enforcement agencies, and declaring that healing does not come to the deaf as long as they are oppressed. I also shared that the church would be hosting a meeting between the deaf community and the chief of police. Following that sermon, the session encouraged me to question the police’s refusal to provide interpreters. A church member called a local television station, and another person called the local newspaper. Both the television station and the newspaper sent reporters to the meeting and interviewed the deaf man. Two members of the session also attended the meeting. These responses in one small setting were not earthshaking. However, they represent the kinds of responses that take first steps toward working against the lifedestroying powers of audism, first steps toward God’s alternate perception of reality. As an institution that itself is captive to the powers, the church must seek ways to continue to name and expose those powers and to envision God’s alternate reality of a community in which all are valued and all are full participants.

    Notes

    1. Charlotte Baker and Dennis Cokely, American Sign Language: A Teacher’s Resource Text on Grammar and Culture (Silver Spring, Md.: T.J. Publishers, 1980), 54. 2. Charlotte Baker-Shenk, “Breaking the Shackles,” Sojourners, March 1985: 30-32. 3. Loraine DiPietro, “Community, Contact, Communication: Perspective on Diversity,” in Deafness: Life & Culture II. A Deaf American Monograph, ed. Mervin D. Garretson, 45 (1995): 29-35. Silver Spring, Md.: National Association of the Deaf, 33. While DiPietro’s focus here is on Deaf culture, there are, of course, deaf people who do not see themselves as members of this culture. They have chosen to be a part of the hearing world, do not use ASL, and many of them manage very well with oralism. They do not socialize with Deaf persons. This is especially true for “late-deafened” people, people who have lost their hearing much later in life. 4. Andrew F. Walls, The Cross-Cultural Process in Christian History (Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books,


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    2002), 28. 5. Charles H. Kraft, Christianity in Culture: A Study in Dynamic Biblical Theologizing in Cross-Cultural Perspective (Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books,1979), 81. 6. Kraft, 289. 7. Neil Glickman, “Cultural identity, deafness, and material health,” Journal of Rehabilitation of the Deaf 20 (2): 1-10. Quoted in Jerome D. Schein, At Home Among Strangers (Washington, D.C.: Gallaudet University Press), 39. 8. Harlan Lane, The Mask of Benevolence: Disabling the Deaf Community (New York: Vintage Books, 1992), 43. 9. Arden Neisser, The Other side of Silence: Sign Language and the Deaf Community in America (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1983), 8. 10. Beryl Lieff Benderly, Dancing without Music: Deafness in America (Washington, D.C.: Gallaudet University Press, 1980), 99. 11. Claire L. Ramsey, Deaf Children in Public Schools (Washington, D.C.: Gallaudet University Press, 1997), 32. 12. Walter Wink, The Powers that Be: Theology for a New Millennium (New York: Doubleday, 1998), 24. 13. Charles L. Campbell, The Word before the Powers: An Ethic of Preaching (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2002), 6-7. 14. Campbell, 33-43. 15. Campbell, 68-88. 16. Campbell, 105. 17. Walter Brucggemann, The Prophetic Imagination (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2001). 18. Arthur M. Kleinman, Patients and Healers in the Context of Culture (Berkeley, Calif.: University of California Press, 1980), 265. Quoted in John J. Pilch, Healing in the New Testament: Insights from Medical and Mediterranean Anthropology. (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2000), 14. 19. Nora Ellen Groce, Everyone Here Spoke Sign Language: Hereditary Deafness on Martha’s Vineyard (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1985), 3. 20. Groce, 50. 21. Groce, 63. 22. Groce, 5. 23. Campbell, 141. 24. Campbell, 142.

  • Speaking the truth in love

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

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    Speaking the Truth in Love

    Charles L. Campbell

    Columbia Theological Seminary, Decatur, Georgia

    John the Baptist came preaching, and Herod beheaded him. Jesus came preaching, and his hometown congregation in Nazareth tried to throw him off a cliff. He kept on preaching, and he was nailed to a cross. Paul came preaching, and he was flogged, stoned, and thrown into prison. Preaching can create conflict! In fact, if we are faithfully proclaiming the gospel, preaching will create conflict. As Martin Luther put it, “how difficult an occupation preaching is. Indeed, to preach the Word of God is nothing less than to bring upon oneself all the furies of hell and of Satan, and therefore also of . .. every power of this world. It is the most dangerous kind of life to throw oneself in the way of Satan’s many teeth.”l Or, in the equally challenging words of the French lay theologian and sociologist, Jacques Ellul, “If you see the powers of the world so well disposed, when you see the state, money, cities accepting your word, it is because your word … has become false. For it is only to the extent that you are a traitor that the world can put up with you.” 2 We need to be honest about this dimension of preaching. Proclaiming the gospel can and does create conflict and disagreement. Preaching can indeed be a most dangerous kind of life. I am not saying, however, that preachers are called to create conflict for the sake of creating conflict. The level of conflict generated by our sermons is not always a measure of their faithfulness (though some preachers try to justify their “prophetic” ministry in this way). Nor am I saying that preachers are called to alienate people in the name of the gospel. We want to be heard ! And we should make every effort to help this happen. Finally, I am definitely not saying that we are called to “beat up” on people from the pulpit in the name of a distorted kind of “prophetic” preaching. Such “I’mright -you’re-wrong” preaching all too often becomes verbally abusive—and verbal abuse from the pulpit is a demonic distortion of Christian proclamation.3 However, preaching should not simply seek to insure that no one gets offended or angry. The purpose of preaching is not simply to help us all get along or insure that “everybody has a place to stand.” The purpose of preaching is faithfully to preach the gospel. The purpose is to preach a redemptive word that frees people and communities from the powers of sin and death that seek to rule the world. But such redemptive preaching requires truth-telling, which often challenges the powers of the world that hold many of us captive and benefit those of us who enjoy privilege and power. Such preaching can and will create conflict because, even though the stone has been rolled away from the tomb, many of us either can’t or won’t step outside into life. There are simply times in ministry when preachers have to speak the “hard words” of the gospel that expose the powers of sin and death and call us to more faithful discipleship.4 There are times when preachers have to speak a word that will stir up disagreement and create conflict. And for many of us, we are living in such times right now. The United States is engaged in a preemptive war in Iraq, in which over 1,000 U.S. troops and an estimated 100,000 Iraqis—including countless civilians—have been killed. The disparity between the rich and the poor within our nation, as well as between wealthy and impoverished nations, grows ever larger. Gay and lesbian people


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    are being oppressed not only in the nation, but in the church, and opposition to gay marriage played a critical—some would say decisive—role in the recent presidential election. The relentless and resilient force of racism continues to rise up in “ever more beguiling forms and predatory guises.” 5 These and countless other conflicts show no

    sign of abating in the months and years ahead. In such times, the gospel cries out to be proclaimed—and such proclamation will stir up disagreement and create conflict. As many of us prepare for a season of challenging, even dangerous, preaching, I have been reflecting on some broad “guidelines” to help us in this task. Two key questions, posed to me by pastors, have shaped my reflections: First, how can we preach the hard words and still get a hearing, rather than simply shutting people down or alienating them? Second, how can we speak the hard words without destroying the personal and pastoral relationships that are critical to our ministry? 6 In response to

    these questions, I have been reflecting not primarily on the rhetorical tactics of the sermon (e.g. stories can be a helpful way to address particular concerns), but on some of the larger matters that shape our lives as preachers and help us maintain our relationship with parishioners. While my reflections are by no means exhaustive, I do hope they will help preachers navigate some of the difficult roads that lie ahead.

    Compelled to Speak The hard word we proclaim should be one the gospel compels us to speak. That is, we need to pay close attention to our motivation in such preaching. Such preaching is not a time to work out our own anger or our own issues. It is not a time to “get” the congregation (or some members of the congregation) because they are so misguided or sinful. If we can’t wait to leap into the pulpit and “let those folks have it,” then we should question our motivation. As a wise pastor once told me, “Never trust a prophet who enjoys the job.” Preachers in the Bible, who knew something about proclaiming a hard word, have captured this motivation very clearly. Jeremiah writes, “If I say, Ί will not mention the Lord or speak any more in the Lord’s name,’ then within me there is something like a burning fire shut up in my bones. I am weary with holding it in, and I cannot” (Jer 20:9). Amos announces, “The Lion has roared; who will not fear? The Lord God has spoken; who can but prophesy?” (Amos 3:8). And the Apostle Paul agonizes, “woe to me if I do not proclaim the gospel” (1 Cor 9:16). The biblical prophets were compelled to speak, and we should be as well. Such discernment about our motivations is not always easy. Anger is an oftenoverlooked virtue for the preacher. 7 As the bumper sticker says, “If you’re not mad

    as hell, you’re not paying attention.” The Spirit works in mysterious ways, including sometimes through the personal frustrations and anger of the preacher who is paying attention to the world. Discernment of our motivations can be difficult. However, a simple test may be helpful. We should ask ourselves, “Are we speaking out of love because we have to? Or are we out to ‘get’ people because we want to?” That is, does the gospel compel us to speak this word? And can we speak this truth in love?

    Preach the Text Controversial sermons, which will create conflict, need to be solidly grounded in a text. And the connection to the text needs to be clear in the sermon itself. Such sermons should not be op-ed pieces that might appear in the local newspaper. As much


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    as possible, the congregation needs to sense that we are not simply spouting our own opinions, but trying faithfully to proclaim the gospel that has come to us in a particular text. Obviously, this process is complex—for we are always dealing with our interpretation of a text. But the clear connection between text and sermon is critical. Then disagreement may not simply be with the preacher’s personal opinions, but with the text and its interpretation. If the text is given to the preacher by the lectionary, that can be even more helpful. In these cases, the preacher has not even chosen the text, but has had to wrestle with a word assigned by the church for that day. And we should not discount the radical and surprising words that the lectionary may provide on particular occasions. For example, on the Sunday after the U.S. invaded Iraq, the lectionary text was 1 Corinthians 1:18-25:

    For the message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God. For it is written, “I will destroy the wisdom of the wise, and the discernment of the discerning I will thwart.”

    Where is the one who is wise? Where is the scribe? Where is the debater of this age? Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world? For since, in the wisdom of God, the world did not know God through wisdom, God decided, through the foolishness of our proclamation, to save those who believe. For Jews demand signs and Greeks desire wisdom, but we proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles, but to those who are called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. For God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God’s weakness is stronger than human strength.

    In the midst of the national fervor and idolatry that always accompany war, Paul speaks a disturbing and subversive word. Similarly, on the Sunday following the entry of U.S. troops into Baghdad, the text was Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem. Jesus enters the city, not in a chariot or a tank, but on a donkey. Engaging in a kind of burlesque “street theater,” Jesus enacts a parody of the military conqueror who enters the city in triumph. Coming as a humble servant, he overturns the world’s ways of domination and violence and challenges the world’s understanding of power. At the beginning of Holy Week, Jesus, in other words, challenges what Walter Wink calls the myth of redemptive violence. According to this myth, the way to bring order out of chaos—the way to deal with enemies who threaten us—is through violence. 8 The contrast between Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem and the United States’ entry into Baghdad simply cannot be ignored. To proclaim the lectionary text on that particular Sunday would probably have created conflict. But if the preacher proclaims the text, the conflict may be focused on the gospel, rather than simply on the person of the preacher.

    Powers not Persons On most Sunday mornings preachers do not face people who actively seek to do evil, but rather people who are complicit with the powers of death that hold them


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    captive. The fundamental problem is not so much evil minds as paralyzed consciences , not so much malevolence as the demoralization of people who have become immobilized by their physical and spiritual captivity to principalities and powers, whether those be institutions, structures, ideologies, or myths. In fact, in many instances these people are deeply frustrated by their complicity with the powers because they know the way they are following is not the way of life. Within this context, sin primarily involves complicity in our own moral death; it is the human inability or refusal to step into the freedom and life made possible in Jesus Christ. The problem is as much weakness or powerlessness as active evil. Consequently , redemption takes on its original connotations of release from bondage, and the purpose of preaching becomes empowering the community of faith to step out of the open tomb to begin to live into the way of the crucified and risen Jesus. Within this framework, the focus of ethical critique in preaching changes. Hard words will not be directed primarily against persons, for we are “not contending against enemies of blood and flesh” (Ephesians 6:12). Rather than making the people in the pews the enemy, the focus of critique will be the powers that hold people captive. The preacher does not “beat up on people” or load them up with guilt, but rather seeks to set them free, possibly even tapping into their longing for release. Preaching thus moves beyond simplistically condemning or challenging individuals and moves toward exposing and confronting the powers that hold people captive. The “tone” of preaching consequently becomes more empathetic and hopeful, rather than judgmental and angry. In this kind of preaching, to put it another way, the distinctions between the “pastoral” and the “prophetic” begin to lose some of their sharpness. When prophetic preaching seeks not to condemn individuals, but to expose the powers that hold people captive and envision alternatives to the way of death, that preaching is deeply pastoral. Such preaching offers the most profound pastoral care for people who live in captivity to the powers of death. Similarly, in the midst of the powers, pastoral preaching will fundamentally seek to set people free for newness of life, which will require a prophetic exposing and envisioning in relation to the principalities and powers. In this kind of preaching, the most profound prophetic work and the deepest pastoral work come together.

    Stand with the Congregation In proclaiming the hard words of the gospel, the preacher should stand with the congregation before the text. That is, the preacher is also being confronted and challenged by the gospel. The preacher is not the “righteous” one who has “arrived,” while everyone else has to repent and change. All of us together come as captives to the powers of death; and all together we are hearing the Word that challenges those powers and seeks to set us free from them. As preachers, we need to beware of taking the role of Jesus and placing the congregation in the shoes of the Pharisees, or claiming the role of the Apostle Paul and casting the congregation as those intractable Corinthians. In other words, we preachers simply need to be truthful about our own captivity to the very powers of domination and violence that we confront in our sermons. We need to be honest about the ways in which the gospel challenges us as well as the congregation. We cannot lose sight of our own sinfulness and complicity with the


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    powers, but should always listen for a word that disturbs us and makes us uneasy. In the sermon we can give clear signals that we are standing with the congregation before the gospel, rather than over against them as the “righteous one.” We can share our own struggle with the text, acknowledge our vulnerability before the Word, and confess our own complicity with the powers from which we too need to be set free. Controversial preaching never has to become “us” against “them,” because, if we preachers are honest, we know that we must stand with the congregation before the gospel.

    Take Time for Homework The powers that be will often try to silence preachers (and indeed, critics in general) by telling us we don’t have enough “information” or “expertise” to speak on a particular matter. Only the “experts” should address the issue. If we accept that argument, we will never speak. For example, if we think we cannot speak about economic injustice or global capitalism until we have earned a master’s degree in economics, the pulpit will mostly fall silent (and the powers will rejoice over the silence they have imposed). As preachers, we will always have to recognize that we are not the “experts” in most matters—and that is okay. Our calling is not to be experts in every discipline, but to address the large powers of injustice, domination, and violence that hold us captive. Nevertheless, if we are dealing with a particular issue, we need to have done our homework. Although sometimes critical events take place, and we need to speak a word on short notice, in most instances when we are preaching on a controversial issue, we need to do significant planning and preparation. Our goal is not to become an “expert,” but to do the best we can to avoid creating conflict for the wrong reasons. That is, if the sermon creates disagreement, we want it to focus on the critical matter at hand, rather than on a factual error or uninformed claim. We don’t want to create diversions that allow folks to focus on the “gnats” while avoiding the larger matters of justice. To avoid such missteps, we will need to do some homework.

    Not Just Critique As Barbara Lundblad has noted, when we are preaching a hard word we need to move beyond critique to “provocative alternatives.”9 In such sermons, we need not only to expose the powers of death in the world, but also to envision the alternatives of the new creation. This does not mean that preachers will offer detailed and tedious policy recommendations. Rather, it means that we will help the congregation “see” beyond our present captivity to new possibilities. At times, in order to move beyond the despair and even paralysis that can come in the face of overwhelming problems, preachers may suggest some concrete practices that will help the congregation take a “next step” toward these new possibilities. At the very least, preachers will always seek to speak a redemptive word, which helps to set people free for newness and empower them for alternatives, rather than simply burdening them with guilt or frustration. Admittedly, in a sermon that proclaims a hard word, people may get bogged down in the critique and have trouble hearing the “provocative alternative.” But in these sermons, such an alternative should always be offered.

    Integrity Between Word and Deed When we are compelled to proclaim a hard word, those of us who preach need to


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    attend carefully to the integrity between our words and our lives. Nothing will undermine such preaching more quickly than a disconnect between what we speak in the pulpit and the way we live our lives during the week. If we speak out against economic injustice while living an unapologetically extravagant lifestyle ourselves, we undermine our message. If we speak out against war, but relate to people violently in our daily lives, we will have trouble being heard. We may not like living in a “fish bowl,” but our living proclaims what we believe day in and day out as clearly (and often more clearly) than our speech from the pulpit on Sunday mornings. And when we are speaking a hard word, the relationship between word and deed is particularly important. This concern for integrity does not mean, however, that we can never speak to a matter until we have become perfectly faithful disciples. If that were the case, the pulpit would grow silent indeed. While our preaching will take on increased power as we genuinely seek to live what we proclaim, we also often have to speak a word that is beyond where we are and challenges our own discipleship. Indeed, one of the great joys and challenges of preaching is that we often proclaim a word—and then we have to try to live into it ourselves. I think this is what happened to Philip in his encounter with the Ethiopian eunuch in Acts 8. Philip proclaims the gospel from Isaiah’s text about the Suffering Servant. He announces that this mysterious figure who was despised and rejected, oppressed and afflicted is actually the Messiah ! As a result, when the eunuch (himself an outsider who was despised and rejected) asks to be baptized, Philip must live into his sermon. He cannot deny baptism to this person from the margins, even though his Book of Order—Deuteronomy—states that eunuchs should not be admitted to the assembly of the Lord (Deut 23:1). And he cannot deny the baptism precisely because he has just proclaimed Jesus as the Suffering Servant. Philip reminds us that integrity between word and deed is a complex matter. Such integrity does not require us to be perfect disciples before we can preach. Rather, this kind of integrity has several different layers. First, such integrity requires that we are always seeking to live more fully in ways that are consistent with the gospel. Then, when we have to preach a hard word, there will be some consistency between our lives and our sermon. Second, this kind of integrity means that we are honest in the sermon about the ways in which our own lives fall short. We admit our own struggles and shortcomings from the pulpit; we are honest about them. We do not pretend to be perfect disciples whom everyone else should emulate. Indeed, such preaching may also recognize other people, including people in the congregation, who are more faithful disciples than we are and may serve as saints from whom we can learn. Finally, this integrity between word and deed requires that we, like Philip, struggle alongside the members of the congregation to live into the word we proclaim. There is an integrity thai follows the sermon, as well as one that precedes it. We simply cannot preach a challenging word and then go back to business as usual ourselves. And we should be open with the congregation about the ways we are seeking to live into our own proclamation. Integrity between word and deed is thus a complex matter, which involves our lives before, during, and after the sermon. But such integrity in its various forms is essential when we are preaching a hard word.


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    Take Pastoral Work Seriously I believe, and many experienced pastors have confirmed, that faithful day-to-day pastoral work enables us to speak the hard words when they are called for. Admittedly, as Reinhold Niebuhr has noted, pastoral care can at times inhibit “prophetic” speech:

    I am not surprised that most prophets are itinerants. Critics of the church think we preachers are afraid to tell the truth because we are economically dependent upon the people of our church. There is something in that, but it does not quite get to the root of the matter. I certainly could easily enough get more money than I am securing now, and yet I catch myself weighing my words and gauging their possible effect upon this and that person. I think the real clue to the tameness of a preacher is the difficulty one finds in telling unpleasant truths to people whom one has learned to love. To speak the truth in love is a difficult, and sometimes an almost impossible, achievement. If you speak the truth unqualifiedly, that is usually because your ire has been aroused or because you have no personal attachment to the object of your strictures. Once personal contact is established you are very prone to temper your wind to the shorn sheep. It is certainly difficult to be human and honest at the same time. I’m not surprised that most budding prophets are tamed in time to become harmless parish priests.10

    Although, as Niebuhr insightfully notes, pastoral care can make speaking the truth a “difficult, and sometimes an almost impossible, achievement,” there is, I believe, a “flip side” to his argument: faithful pastoral work can also actually free us to become more “prophetic” preachers. In the first place, our pastoral work often opens the space for us to speak the hard words. If we have been in members’ homes, visited them in the hospital, and stood beside them in times of crisis, we will be pleased at what they will be willing to hear from the pulpit. If the congregation knows their preacher loves them and is one of them, they will usually be willing at least to listen to a hard word, just as they would listen to a difficult truth from a friend. * * Everyone may not agree with the word that is proclaimed, but the disagreements will not necessarily destroy personal or pastoral relationships. I learned this truth firsthand as a youth. The pastor at our church preached a strong, unequivocal sermon against the Vietnam War. I remember to this day the preacher’s opening words: “I’m going to read the sermon today because I want to be clear and careful about what I am saying.” (He had done his homework!) On our drive home after church, my father, who supported the war and the president, made a comment I will never forget: “I disagree with everything he said. But I respect his right to say it.” Because of the relationship that had been nurtured by our pastor, my father could disagree with the sermon, but respect the pastor and maintain that personal relationship . And over the years, despite their disagreements, the pastor and my father became close friends. Faithful pastoral work can enable preachers to speak hard words without vital pastoral relationships necessarily being destroyed. Second, pastoral work enables us to know our congregations intimately, which may help us discern the most effective ways to speak a difficult word. As Nora Tisdale


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    has pointed out, such pastoral work gets us in touch with the “local theology” of the congregation. 12 We come to know their convictions and values and fears in concrete and particular ways. And knowledge of this “local theology” may provide the “contact points” that preachers can build on when we need to preach a hard word. Such knowledge of the congregation may help us discern the “common ground” that enables a hard word to be proclaimed and heard. Indeed, as a result of our pastoral work, we may be surprised to find the congregation more open to a challenging word than we might have guessed—if we can simply discern the best way “in.” Such pastoral knowledge of the congregation’s “local theology” will also help preachers be aware of the points at which there will be conflict and disagreement. When the pastor knows the convictions, values, and fears of the congregation, she will not be caught off guard by their response to a sermon, but will know the ways in which nerves will be touched and concerns aroused. She will thus be better prepared to deal with these conflicts when they arise. Finally, as I have just suggested, faithful pastoral work prior to a challenging sermon opens the door to the necessary pastoral work that may follow such a sermon. Whether formal or informal, time for conversation and open disagreement is critical following sermons that create conflict. And there will also probably be a need for genuine pastoral care because such sermons often raise fears, stir up grief, and lead to personal struggles. If the preacher has been a faithful pastor and has established a genuine “friendship” with the congregation, she will be in a position to welcome these disagreements and concerns and remain in conversation with the people.I3 Ideally, the friendship will be deep enough to sustain the relationships in the midst of and through the conflict. Sometimes, however, this does not happen. Relationships are broken, and people leave the church, or the preacher is figuratively flogged. While faithful pastoral work can never guarantee such negative outcomes won’t occur, it at least helps to give the congregation and pastor an opportunity to remain and grow together in difficult times. I suspect we preachers have some tough days ahead as we seek to be faithful proclaimers of the Word. In our current context, I believe the gospel will create significant conflict and disagreement. Ours is indeed a dangerous and risky occupation . In the midst of the danger, however, our calling is to proclaim the “hard words” in ways that are redemptive, rather than abusive, in ways that build up, rather than simply tear down, and in ways that lead to hope, rather than despair. This path is a challenging and difficult one, but it is the only one on which the truth will be spoken in love.

    Notes 1. WA, 25, 253. Thanks to Justo Gonzalez and Judi Holley for translating the Latin. See also Heiko Oberman, “The Preaching of the Word in the Reformation,” Harvard Divinity Bulletin, 25,1 (Oct 1960): 9. 2. Jacques Ellul, The Meaning of the City, trans. Dennis Pardee (Grand Rapids, Michigan: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Co., 1970), 37. 3. For an examination of verbal abuse, see Patricia Evans, The Verbally Abusive Relationship: How to Recognize It and How to Respond, 2d ed. (Holbrook, Mass: Adams Media Corporation, 1996). 4.1 have borrowed the phrase “hard words” from Barbara K. Lundblad’s book, Transforming the Stone: Preaching Through Resistance to Change (Nashville: Abingdon, 2001), 95. I prefer this phrase to “prophetic preaching” because in Scripture the prophetic word involves much more than challenge or


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    judgment; it also includes promise and vision. Lundblad’s excellent book covers some of the same material I cover here and should be read by pastors facing the challenge of “bearing the hard words” to their congregations. 5. See Bill Wylie-Kellermann, “Not Vice Versa. Reading the Powers Biblically: Stringfellow, Hermeneutics, and the Principalities,” Anglican Theological Review 81,4 (1999): 672-4. 6. These reflections were stimulated by responses I have received from pastors to my book, The Word Before the Powers: An Ethic of Preaching (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2002). Pastors have often requested concrete suggestions about ways to preach amidst the powers without completely alienating their congregations or destroying critical pastoral and personal relationships. While I do make some suggestions in the book, this article is an attempt to provide some more concrete guidance. The article necessarily presumes much material in the book because there is not space to flesh out details that are covered there. For a detailed discussion of the nature and strategies of the principalities and powers, see Word before the Powers, 7-43. 7. On anger as virtue of the preacher, see Campbell, Word before the Powers, 176-78. 8. On the myth of redemptive violence, see Campbell, Word before the Powers, 27-30. I would argue that the events of Jesus’ ministry and passion, which we remember during Lent (from the temptation to the predictions of his death to the triumphal entry to the other events of Holy Week), all focus particularly on Jesus’ challenge to the myth of redemptive violence and his embodiment of nonviolent resistance to the powers. See Word before the Powers, 44-67. 9. Lundblad, Transforming the Stone, 98. 10. Reinhold Niebuhr, Leaves from the Notebook of a Tamed Cynic; reprint (New York: Da Capo Press, 1976), 53. 11. On the church as a community of friends and the implications of this friendship for preaching, see Campbell, Word before the Powers, 159-69. 12. Nora Tubbs Tisdale, Preaching as Local Theology and Folk Art (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 1997). 13. John McClure has proposed that such conversation with members of the congregation also precede the sermon and contribute to its development. This approach may also be particularly helpful when one is preaching a hard word. See John S. McClure, The Roundtable Pulpit: Where Leadership andPreaching Meet (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1995).

  • A letter to ministers of the church in the US

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    A Letter to Ministers of the Church in the U.S.

    Eberhard Busch

    University of Goettingen, Goettingen, Germany

    Dear Sisters and Brothers,

    For seventeen years I was a minister of the church in Switzerland, and since 1986 I have been Professor of Reformed Theology in Germany at the university in Goettingen. In Switzerland most Protestants are Reformed. In Germany the Reformed are a small minority in relation to Lutherans and the United Churches, but they are Reformed more consciously than in Switzerland. Here they like and learn the Heidelberg Catechism. They sing the Geneva Psalms, and they sing with loud voices and by heart. And they take care that the commandment against images in the churches (including those of the cross) is observed exactly. I have spent time in the U.S. before, and this fall I was there for two months. Each time it was a pleasure for me to meet members of Presbyterian and Reformed Churches and others. Once again it astonished me how strongly you differ from the impressions held about you at a distance. Certainly, I am not an American. But as a foreigner I am a brother of the brothers and sisters of the Church of Jesus Christ in your land. Even if the holy services I visited differ quite a bit from the Sunday services at home, it was while in worship that I felt most strongly how much we belong together under the one head Jesus Christ as members of his body. Thank you for the invitation to write a letter to you! At first I want to speak about what impresses me in the churches of your country, things which I wish our churches, especially in Germany and Switzerland, would learn from you. Maybe what I find best in your churches is not obvious to other congregations in your land, but it is enough that it struck me in this way. First, I enjoyed being present at holy services that were well attended and coherently shaped. At home only a very small portion of the baptized members of a church come to the Sunday gathering. In the U.S. I was astonished to see that even in congregations with not many members the pews were well-filled on Sunday. And how impressive it is that so many people take part in the presentation of the service! It agrees with Calvin’s ideas that at Columbia Theological Seminary Eucharist is celebrated at least once per week. In some holy services the bulletin showed in an exemplary manner the order of worship in five parts: Gathering around the Word (with the important Prayer of Confession), Proclaiming the Word, Responding to the Word (it is great that the collection is gathered in this context!), and last but not least, Bearing and Following the Word into the World. Unforgettable for me was the voice of a young boy at Ebenezer Baptist Church, who sang movingly, “Go tell it in the mountain….” At the end of the Sunday service the congregation was not “dismissed with the Lord’s blessing,” as is said in Germany; here the Sunday service aims at sending of all members of the church among their neighbors. It seems that you understand better than we do at home1 what Karl Barth wrote 1959: “To be a witness,… it is for this that the Christian can and should continually believe and obey. It is for this that… he receives the forgiveness of his sin and light and power for a liberated life.”2


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    Second, during our stay at Columbia Theological Seminary it became important for me to learn that in comparison with Germany the theology is far more clearly oriented to service—independent from the question of in which denomination service will be done. That service is a primary aim of theology study is expressed by daily devotion in chapel. I heard that the students are specially prepared to serve in worship before they themselves stand in the pulpit. There we heard solid sermons. Such preparation will bear fruit in their future life as ministers and the time spent in such practice, I think, is not at the expense of other training, learning, and reflection. The theological education in your country has the merit of providing concrete preparation to those called to be missionaries in the name of Christ. On the other hand, it seems to be taken as self-evident at home that even after a six or seven years of study theologians are not thought ready for a pastorate, but must train for two and a half years more and take a seminar for preachers. And it is also strange to me that at home pastors and theologians are dismissed from their ministry once they reach the age of sixty-five, while in the U.S. they can work without such limits, and fifty-year-old seminary students are not uncommon. Third, I noticed at Columbia Seminary a positive ecumenical openness. Far more people from other parts of our world study there than is usual in Germany. And conversely, students from your country receive further training by travelling to certain places in the wide world. Neither way is known to me in Germany. I guess that in your country seeds from such experience will bear manifold fruits in the congregations. And I hope your congregations will grow in knowledge about congregations in distant places, and will participate in the sorrows there, and learn from the spiritual riches to be found there. It was important for us to hear from one another in the Campbell Seminar how the Church is growing among the poor people of Nicaragua, and that fifteen million Christians live among the Arabs. The former moderator of the PCUSA shared his firsthand experience with violence against the Palestinians by the State of Israel, a topic about which the media is silent. The present moderator of the PCUSA shared information about the engagement of U.S. Christians in forbidden, but nevertheless active, border rescues of hard-pressed people from Latin America. It is amazing that at a time when so many people in the world are shocked about the the U.S. war in Iraq, so many Christians in the U.S. are engaged at home and in other countries against the bad spirit of violence and especially religiously “baptized” violence. Now I want to declare some wishes for my sisters and brothers in the U.S. Maybe these wishes are already fulfilled in some places about which I don’t know. Maybe these wishes will seem to many to be unrealizable. In any event, I name them as a friend who has received a gift by being among you, and as a Christian from abroad who hopes with Christians in your country for what I want to speak of now. First, it hurts me to see the big split between Protestant churches in your country, the separation into so many different denominations. Is it a great richness? Or a sign of liberty that your people move from one congregation into another? By God’s mysterious providence it is so. But is such division not also a burden and annoyance? If someone is a member of a congregation, he or she as a rule doesn’t go to another. Why are the only whites one sees in the black Ebenezer Baptist Church visitors? Is this the hint of the Holy Spirit? Recently a German friend asked me, “How intolerant are people in the U.S., especially in the churches?” I thought the question was absurd. But now I pass it on you. Has this variety good, spiritual reasons behind it? Maybe


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    Christians agree about many things—faith in the Triune God, in the incarnation of God’s Son, in the Holy Spirit and in God’s gift of justification and sanctification, and with the understanding that the Church is gathered around the Word and Sacrament and has a mission to others in the light of reconciliation and peace—but they have different understandings, let us say, about gay and lesbian people and so on. They do not look for ways to bear with one another. Instead they separate into detached denominations, not in the name of the Triune God, but in the name of certain philosophies of life. “I appeal to you, my brothers and sisters, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ: agree among yourselves, and avoid divisions; be firmly joined in unity of mind and thought… ” ( 1 Cor 1:10). How we can stand today for peace in the world if peace does not rule in the Church in the sense of the power to bear differences? Second, I see with sadness the break between the mainline Protestant and the evangelical congregations in this country, not to mention the break in relations with fundamentalists. It is true, here and there Jesus Christ is preached, and there is faith, love, and hope in his name. But both sides are facing each other as if the other side is wrong and relies on Christ unjustly. Is there no change possible? I do not deny the possibility that sometimes in the Church one part of the church must be treated as if it is not a member of the one, holy Church of Christ. But this should not be decided by the group that makes the most noise. The Holy Spirit goes a quiet way. So it was in 1934 in Germany when with the Theological Declaration of Barmen the powerful “German Christians” were declared to be out of the Church because they accomodated the violent power of Hitler. Today the fundamentalists in your country must be asked not how nicely their speakers carry the Bible in their hands, but whether they misuse the Word of God by giving their blessing to violence and weapons. The German Pietists came through the Revival Movement in the nineteenth century close to the Evangelicals in this country, and over against the Liberals they became orthodox. My book Karl Barth and the Pietists3 shows how in their mutual occupation with one another both were led into a learning process. Can not the Christians in your country come to work with one another on account of the challenge by their common Lord? Both together have to confess him and must give signs of hope in time of abundance and of hunger in the face of power struggles and of violence. It is time to take the prayer of Jesus for his believers seriously: “I pray, may they all be one: as thou, Father, art in me, and I in thee, so also may they be in us, that the world may believe thou didst send me” (John 17:21). Third, to my regret I got the impression that among Christians the relation of church and state or the relation of what it means to be a child of God and to be an American has become confused. What is confessed by this: that in some churches in your country the American flag is erected? At Lancaster Theological Seminary I was asked what I think about Americanism, and I gave the answer: “You may be grateful to God that you are allowed to be Americans. So many from this country are messengers of peace in their surroundings and for people far away. But Americanism? – this means violence ! God preserve your country and the rest of humanity from that!” I know that officially in the U.S. churches are separated. But in some ways they are closer together than in Europe. There they had to learn that the church must be separated from the state, because the church had to a$k again and again not what the state liked, what the nation liked, or what the people would like to hear, but what would proclaim and declare God. As I have learned it from Zwingli,4 the Church must always


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    be a sentinel, so that the “righteousness of a State” is to be measured by the life of the weakest and most suppressed. But now I am happy that whatever challenge I bring comes not just from outside your country. This knowledge has opened in the U.S. itself: “Today, we have to do with ‘American Christians’ who cannot separate nation from gospel, counting upon God to bless their crusades and praying to ‘Jesus, the warrior’ rather than to ‘the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.’ To this, we speak a firm ‘No!’”5 I hear among you the voice of the one, holy, catholic Church of Jesus Christ whom we are called to follow, in Europe, in the other parts of the world—and in the U.S.

    In the community of faith, love, and hope,

    Eberhard Busch

    Notes

    1. A good example for this understanding may be found in the books of Darrell Guder: Be My Witnesses: The Church’s Mission, Message, and Messengers (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1985); (ed.) Missional Church: A Vision for the Sending of the Church (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000); The Continuing Conversion of the Church (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000). 2. Karl Barth, Church Dogmatics IV/3 II (Edinburgh: T. and T. Clark, 1962), 593. 3. Eberhard Busch, Karl Barth and the Pietists: The Young Karl Barth’s Critique of Pietism and Its Response, trans, by Daniel W. Bloesch (Downers Grove, III.: InterVarsity Press, 2004). 4. See H. Zwingli in Carl S. Meyer’s Luther’s andZwingli’s Propositions for Debate: The Ninety-five Theses of 31 October 1517 and the Sixty-Seven Articles of 19 January 1523: In the Original Version and Contemporary Translations. With a New English Translation, Introduction, and Bibliography (Leiden, Netherlands: E.J. Brill, 1963). 5. Letter to Pastors and Teachers in the United Church of Christ, May 31,2004, Confessing Christ Steering Committee.

  • ‘Out of your mind’

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    “Out of Your Mind”

    Acts 12:1-17

    Anna Carter Florence

    Columbia Theological Seminary, Decatur, Georgia

    Do you ever get the feeling there are some things about the disciples that maybe we don’t want to know?—such as: what is this connection with Peter and servant girls? Why, at the tensest moments, is it always the maid who identifies him? I can think of at least three of these women. There’s the servant girl of the high priest, on the night Jesus was arrested: she can identify Peter. She stares at him warming himself by the fire, in the high priest’s courtyard, and finally says, “I know you. You were with that Galilean”—which Peter famously denies. There’s a second servant girl, according to Matthew, who sees Peter on the porch the same night; she remembers him, too. She tells the people around her, “This man was with Jesus of Nazareth”—which Peter denies again, without bothering to disguise his Nazareth accent. And then a year or so later there’s Rhoda, or “Rosie,” if you want a loose translation of the Greek: Rosie the maid, from Acts 12.1 She doesn’t even need to see Peter in order to recognize him; she knows what he sounds like. So when she hears his voice at the door on a night that just happens to be Passover, just like the night when Jesus was arrested, she is so happy she doesn’t even stop to open it and rushes to announce to everybody that Peter is at the gate!—which Peter doesn’t deny, this time, but everyone else does. {Flip goes the story…) Three servant girls, three denials, three positive ID’s. Now, I realize three instances do not necessarily constitute a trend, and I don’t want to make too much of this. There could be a lot of reasons why Peter made such a lasting impression on female domestic staff. Maybe he was exceptionally kind to them. Maybe his sermons promised them a freedom they didn’t know in this world. Maybe Peter just stood out from the other disciples because he was the cute one, or the clumsy one, or the one with fisherman’s biceps or a Sean Connery Galilean accent; who knows? There could be any number of reasons why these women could identify Peter in the dark, most of which are far too boring to make it into a supermarket tabloid. For a while I read this story thinking that if those servant women remembered Peter, it must be something about him. I suppose I wanted Peter to be the hero; 1 wanted him to be an unforgettable role model, a caring pastor, a great preacher, a man of the people, a champion of justice, honest and wise and brave and true. It’s ^preaching conference, okay?2 I wanted to find us a good role model. And Peter’s a good one, in this story. Imagine, if you got to be Peter, when you returned home. Imagine preaching the kind of sermon that people actually notice, because it’s not only exegetically sound and contextually sensitive, it’s true, and even dangerous; and I don’t mean because Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so will be so mad about what you said that they’ll withdraw their money; I mean the kind of dangerous that goes beyond local church politics, so that there are FBI agents sitting in the back pews taking notes, and your sermons are quoted in the Washington Post, launching movements, inspiring activists, horrifying the Pentagon, until finally the president himself has no choice but to order your arrest, because your preaching is toppling governments. Can you even


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    picture that?! And imagine, the night before your trial, locked in your cell, guards on either side, alarm systems at every door, and suddenly, an angel appears, breaks your chains, takes your hand, leads you out, and you find yourself free, free to preach another day! I love reading the story that way. Imagine: the preacher who tells the truth, makes a difference, goes to jail, and then, is rescued by angels! Wow. The sermons I would preach, if I thought it would go like that. The things I’d say, on behalf of justice, if all I had to worry about was the Pentagon. No more pressure to keep Mr. and Mrs. Soand -so happy. No more budgets. Just truth…and angels. Preacher heaven. So it’s apreaching conference, and I admit I got a little carried away thinking about Peter and his angel. I got a little stuck in that reading of the text. I started to believe it was all about him: that if Rosie the maid and the other servant girls insisted that they remembered Peter, it must be something about him—clearly, his unforgettable preaching. Because that would make a good, inspiring story for us, right? Be like Peter. Truth…and angels. Go in peace. But I forgot. Peter isn’ t the real preacher in this story. Oh, he’s a preacher all right, but he isn’t doing it right now; he isn’t preaching here, in this text. The one who is preaching, is Rhoda; Rosie the maid. She’s the preacher. Which might lead us to wonder if our next homiletical hero, our next role model, is Rosie the maid. The thing about Luke is, he’s too careful a writer to leave anything to chance. Every word choice is deliberate and loaded. And when he repeats a particular verb or image, you have to assume that it isn’t just by accident; he’s trying to make a point. Those word repetitions are like little neon signs in the middle of the text: ***Pay attention. *** Pay attention. *** That’s how I discovered that Rhoda wasn’t the only servant girl around: I hauled out my concordance, and there they were, the maid by the fire and the maid at the door, blinking *** at me. But it was the verbs that turned this text around for me, all these obscure lexicon parallels between Luke and Acts that only a preacher could love—like did you know, for example, that the word Luke uses for “recognizing” (as in, Rosie the maid recognizing Peter), is the same word he uses in the Road to Emmaus story, when Jesus took the bread, and broke it, and their eyes were opened and they recognized him?! It’s a rare verb for Luke; he doesn’t use it much. Or how about this one: the word for what Rhoda does when she recognizes Peter, the word apagello, that gets translated here as “announced” (as in, “she ran in and announced that Peter was standing at the gate”)—well, that happens to be the same verb John uses in the resurrection story, when Mary Magdalene announces on Easter morning, “I have seen the Lord!” Rhoda is the first woman to claim that verb since Mary. Is that awesome, or what?! I’m not sure my worshiping community would find this quite as fascinating as I do, but hey—this is a preaching conference, and you’ll allow me one digression into language technicalities, won’t you? Because this is BIG, you all. Luke is telling us, in his very sneaky Lukan way, that Rhoda ran into that room with an announcement, a proclamation, that Peter was alive. He wasn’t in jail, the way he was supposed to be; he wasn’t dead, the way Herod promised he would be, first thing tomorrow; no, he was alive, and he was standing right outside the gate, because Rhoda heard him knocking, and her ears were opened and she recognized him! (Is this ringing any bells for you, people? I hope so, because Luke is not the least bit subtle about any of this!) Peter is not dead, Rhoda announces; he is alive, and he is here, and I tell you, she


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    insists, / heard him! And you know what? Every single one of those believers, who had spent hours praying for this very thing to happen, every single one of them looked at Rhoda and said, “You’re out of your mind.” Which isn’t quite as rude as telling her that her story is an idle tale and a lot of hogwash, but close. She proclaimed something, and they didn’ t believe her. She preached good news, and they dismissed her. Poor Rhoda. She’s out of her mind. She wants Peter back so badly she ys starting to hear things. She announced that the very thing they had prayed for had come to pass, and they told her she was delusional. Why is that?! Do you think she just wasn’t convincing enough? Did her announcement lack passion and a depth of personal commitment? Maybe she hadn’t adequately grasped the pastoral context, felt their pain, addressed their needs. Maybe she wasn’t a very good storyteller: her delivery lacked a certain polish, an awareness of the importance of dramatic structure. Maybe she didn’t lean hard enough on the biblical and theological foundations of her message; she should have cited more theologians and scriptural references, argued her case. Maybe she hadn’t spent enough time on her focus and function statements. Or maybe her announcement just wasn’t very interesting , compared to their prayers. But surely, there must have been something she could have done to improve her proclamation and make them believe her. Isn’t that what we preachers do, when no one jumps up to believe us? We figure, Well, it must be me. Right? Thank God we have this story. Praise God for Rosie the maid. You know what I hear from her? I hear that a preacher isn’t the one who’s most convincing; a preacher just has to be convinced herself. A preacher is just the one who recognizes the dead man at the door, and announces to everybody that he’s really alive, and asking to come in, so shouldn’t they go open the gate, now? That’s a preacher: a doorman who keeps looking for dead people. A maid named Rosie, who knows Peter’s voice when she hears it. 1 haven’t tried this out on my students yet. You can let me know whether it would have sent you round the bend, when you were in seminary, to hear that a preacher is really a doorman for dead people, or a doorman who keeps looking for people and things we thought were dead. Things that others tell you are utterly impossible, like ending a war. Things other folks have given up on long ago, like a church that welcomes everyone. Things we pray for, but certainly don’t expect to happen, like Peter escaping from Herod. Things no one in this world, no one in their right mind, would dare to hope for. And that’s really it, isn’t it? To preach, you can’t be in your right mind. You have to be a little out of it, to be perfectly frank. Because there isn’t anything that’s going to dislocate you more than the grace of God. It will pick you up out of your ordered life, where you pray for the power of God to break into our reality, and it’ll do just that: it’ll break into any reality you ever thought you had a handle on, and plunk you down on another planet. It will dislocate you until you’re out of your mind (wherever that was) and instead, wandering around someplace called the realm of God. Totally illogical. And then you get the call to preach, right?—so God says, “Okay, here’s what I want you to do: just wait at the door, and when someone knocks, figure out who it is and then come tell us”—which sounds simple enough until you realize that you’re going to spend the rest of your life recognizing the risen Christ and announcing that there’s a person we all assumed was dead waiting at the door, mid guess what?—


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    they yre not dead now. Luke says the other people in the house were amazed, when they finally came to the door and saw Peter. They were more than amazed, actually; they were scared witless, scared out of their minds. They were confused and displaced and beside themselves—take your pick, the word means all those things. It’s a word Luke uses a lot, maybe because it’s a frightening place, the realm of God. It’s a frightening thing to see the power of God moving in our very prayers. Little girls we thought were dead turn out to be only sleeping. Paralytics pick up their beds and walk. Women run back from a graveyard with news about an empty tomb. The good news we hoped for really comes to pass, and it scares us to death. I don’t blame Peter’s friends for choosing to believe in the realm of Herod, where might makes right and prisoners stay put in their cells. I don’t blame Peter’s friends for telling Rosie the maid she was out of her mind. They were already moving on with their grief. And then her words yanked them right back to that weird, liminal space where miracles aren’t just stories you tell about events that happened to someone else; they happen to you. It’s pretty darn scary, to have to live like that, as though preachers were really telling the truth about who was knocking at the door. I should probably come clean and tell you that “Rhoda” also means “clown,” which has all sorts of familiar implications for preachers: “the clown of God,” and so on. But today, I wanted to give you Rosie the maid. I think I prefer her to the clown, actually. I prefer the preacher who’s a doorman for dead stuff. It helps me remember that in the end, it’s not about me, and my preaching abilities, and never was. It’s about being out of my mind. Isn’t that kind of comforting?—to know that we can’t preach at all until we’re out of our minds. We can’t preach at all until we’ve spent time as a doorman, or as Rosie the maid, waiting at the gate of the realm of God, paying attention to who knocks, and then running to announce what we’ ve seen. And if it takes a really long time for the people to believe us, well, did you notice that Peter just keeps knocking? Where else is he going to go? Don’t worry about the words. It’s enough to be overjoyed by what we’ve seen and heard in this text, and what we believe about it. Just keep watching. Just keep watching.

    Notes

    1. With thanks to Justo L. González, who, upon hearing that I was working on an Acts 12 sermon about Rhoda, remarked, “Rhoda? Oh—you mean Rosie the maid!” 2. This sermon was preached at the Festival of Homiletics, Washington, D.C., May 19, 2004.

  • Preaching the cross in our context

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    Preaching the Cross in Our Context

    Douglas John Hall1 Emeritus Professor of Christian Theology, McGill University, Montreal, Canada

    We preach Christ crucified, a stumbling-block to the religious and foolishness to the intelligentsia. (1 Cor 1:23)

    Let me come right to the point and say that I think that preaching the cross in our context is perhaps the most difficult thing a Protestant pastor is called to do. Given the religious and political climate in much of North America today, it could even be seen as an act of disloyalty—maybe even apostasy. All the same, it’s the only kind of preaching we need, and there’s precious little of it!

    + ‘Context’ is the operative word in this title. Contexts vary, sometimes markedly— even when they’re partof the same basic (e.g. ‘Western’, ‘developed’, etc.) world. My closest friend is a German pastor and theologian, Friedrich Hufendiek of Berlin. We studied with Reinhold Niebuhr and the other exceptional teachers at Union Seminary in New York fifty years ago, and have maintained a remarkable friendship over the years. I have learned a great deal from Fritz—not least of all how very different expressions of Protestantism can be. Years ago, when we were first getting to know one another, Fritz told me: “In Westphalia, where I grew up [not far from the Niebuhr farm that Reinhold’ s father fled to seek his fortune in America], what happened on Good Friday was this: All the Protestants went to church, very solemnly, and all the Catholics stayed home and quite deliberately and conspicuously worked in their fields.” And I had to tell Fritz: “With us in southwestern Ontario it was the exact opposite. We Anglo-Protestants regarded Good Friday observance as a Catholic [i.e. practically a pagan !] practice. We told one another, rather smugly, ‘Well ! Jesus rose from the dead, after all ! The cross is empty. ‘ The closest we came even to acknowledging the existence of Good Friday was hot cross buns!” The popular spin-offs of the liturgical movement of recent decades, such as the inclusion of (often ostentatious) crosses in even the most Waspish of Protestant church sanctuaries have altered very little in this respect. With the exception of some Anglicans and Lutherans, the cross for most Protestants in Canada and the U.S. is still pretty empty—and I don’t just mean devoid of the Christ-figure, but empty symbolically . We still see it as something that has been surpassed, superceded, relegated to the past tense. Hence, while hoards of North American Protestants and neo-pagans show up on Easter Sunday (How they love to sing “our triumphant, holy day”!), most of our feeble Protestant attempts at Good Friday worship bring forth pathetic little bands, many of whom, I suspect, wonder whether they are not doing something just slightly clandestine so far as true-belief is concerned. Why this difference? Why should Protestantism in North America manifest a manner of observing the events at the centre of our faith so different from that in the Germanic homelands of the Reformation?


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    One reason is historical: the main influences on our ‘New World’ forms of Protestantism were Modern ones—and I use that term in the technical sense, meaning post-Medieval, Renaissance- and/or Enlightenment-inspired, given to the kind of linear thinking that (in the words of an old song) accentuates the positive, eliminates the negative, and doesn’t mess with “the ambiguities of history.” Whether we are speaking about Zwingli, Calvin, Oecolampadius and other figures of the Reformed tradition, most of them educated in the new “humanist” approach to learning, or about Methodists and others influenced by the pietistic reaction against rationalistic orthodoxy , they all manifest a tendency to stress the victory of ‘the third day’ in such a way as to empty the cross prematurely. Whether in doctrinaire (Calvinistic) or in sentimental (pietistic) ways, the cross of Christ becomes little more than the necessary prelude to its overcoming, thus losing its power as a point of reference for creaturely pain and rejection. Luther, by contrast, kept at least one foot in the Medieval world—not its scholastic but its mystical side, the side that came to the fore after the collapse of Christian scholasticism in the late Middle Ages. Unlike Modernity, the late Medieval mystics who were Luther’ s antecedents did not indulge in idealistic fantasies about the triumph of the good, especially where this world is concerned. In this life we can expect a continuing interplay of good and evil, light and darkness, the divine and the demonic— and in ways that make it difficult to distinguish the one from the other. The gospel, for Luther, is not that everything that threatens life has already been quite visibly put to flight, but that the darkness of our ‘fallen’ world has been visited by the Source of a light that cannot be extinguished: therefore we, by grace alone, may learn the courage to live faithfully despite the continuing assaults of temptation, despair, the demonic, death, and the whole host of negating realities out of Pandora’s box. The cross remains the central focus of Luther’s theology, as of Paul’s, because it represents the point of God’s own solidarity with us (“Emmanuel”)—God’s determination, neither to abandon the world prematurely (Bonhoeffer) nor to overlook its terrible wrongness, but to go right to the heart of its darkness and initiate its redemption from within the deep, entrenched structures of creaturely estrangement. The resurrection does not shift faith’s focus away from the cross; to the contrary, it establishes the cross as the decisive event in God’s costly compassion for, movement towards, and reconciliation of the damaged creation. As Ernst Kaesemann put it, “the resurrection is a chapter in the theology of the cross.”

    + It is obvious to anyone with a minimal knowledge of the European ‘experiment’ called [North] America2, that the bright vision of a ‘New World’ at the heart of that experiment is supported more straightforwardly by the first (Reformed, pietistic) than by the second (Mystical, Lutheran) type of Protestant pre-understanding. One could almost say that Calvinism (not to be equated with Calvin) and Methodism (not to be equated with the Wesleys) were made for as well (to a considerable extent) as in America. Lutherans, with few exceptions, not only came to these shores later, but they came with a significantly different story to tell; and those forms of Lutheranism most readily adaptable in the U. S. and Canada were eighteenth and nineteenth-century pietistic revisions of that tradition that, in their doctrine and morality if not their liturgies, had more in common with Methodism and other post-Enlightenment forms


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    of pietism than with the Lutheranism of the sixteenth century. A society as determined to banish the darkness and create a “new Eden for the new Adam” (S. Ahlstrom) as was America positively needed a religion that would spur its citizens on to greater and greater achievements.

    + No one would deny that much has been achieved under the impetus of such a triumphant socio-religious mythos. But something was lost, too. And, though we ought not to have needed September 11, 2001, to highlight what was lost, that horrendous event has shocked many thoughtful people into realizing that something is profoundly lacking in America’s combination of political bravado and religious self-assurance. The dominant white, Anglo-Saxon, middle-class Protestant culture of this continent has never known what to do about the “bad things” that happen to “good people.” Our way of dealing with personal tragedy and death, by comparison with older civilizations (or with our nearest neighbor, Mexico, for instance) can only be described, charitably, as pathetic—in the serious, non-pejorative sense of that word. We approach every obstacle to ‘the good life’ as a problem that we just haven’t solved—yet! Our faith in solutions, especially technological, economic, and military ones, is far more impressive than our widely trumpeted “trust in God.” In fact, God, for most of us, turns out to be the ultimate Problem-Solver, with organized religion as ‘His’ answering service. A God who, like Job’s, asks the questions, is largely a stranger in these parts. Along with such an interrogating God, we’ve banned from our vocabulary whole anthropological concepts that our foundational traditions, Jerusalem and Athens, took very seriously—ideas like destiny, necessity, tragedy, limits, the strange interplay of opposites: ideas based on centuries of experiencing the reality of restraint, ontological and moral complexity, and nature’s ruthless circumscription of human possibilities. Anything that smacks of ‘negativity’ bothers us enormously. One very thoughtful U.S. president lost his job, partly, because he dared to speak openly about a “crisis of confidence.” We prefer leaders who “don’t do nuance,” and distinguish sharply between good and evil, carefully locating the latter beyond our borders or in questionable (liberal-intellectual, ‘eastern’, homosexual) elements within. We are so imprisoned in our upbeat-ism that we are ready to listen to fantastic lies and nonsense about the state of the world if only they enable us to hold onto our fabled optimism (which is no true optimism, in fact, but the rhetorical optimism of the frightened)— and, by the way, also our shining bathrooms. We are surrounded by the data of despair. It’s in the air we breathe, the food we eat, the god-awful television we watch. But with the help of ‘bread and circuses’ more diverting than anything the ancient Romans ever came up with (consider the role of so-called ‘Spectator Sports’ in this society!), we turn off reality as easily as we shift channels with our remote control wands or surf the internet. We are a society of instinctive and skilled repressors the like of which has never before existed. And if we can’t repress some manifestation of the darkness we thought we’d overcome (as we can’t repress the awesome vision of the falling towers in Manhattan), we do the next best thing and attribute it to . . . them. And we’re going to fix them, too—i.e. quite unabashedly by hunting them down and killing them, or the bad eggs among them, and liberating the rest of them for our kind of Freedom. And you wonder why anyone


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    would find it difficult to preach the cross in our context?

    + To ask well-fed, well-heeled, well-meaning North American Protestants to look at the cross of Jesus Christ (as Medieval peasants and mystics did, or as the chorus in Bach’s passions does) without the dubious benefit of the kind of instant resurrectionism that wipes away all the blood and tears before they’ve been seen close up—that’s an affront to the cult and the culture we’ve worked to hard to establish on these shores. A Christ who really suffers is as much a skandalon to the religious and foolishness to the clever of our society as he was to Paul’s. So, pause briefly, if you insist, to notice the beautifully poignant face of the Christ as he asks God to forgive his executioners and motions his dear mother towards the waiting arms of his beloved disciple. But do not linger there—if you know what’s good for you, mister/miz preacher! That was Mel Gibson’s problem: he lingered. Now, I disliked the film of Mr. Gibson as much as any other self-respecting Protestant (and for better theological reasons, too, I’ll wager!); but lately I have wondered if the real offense of The Passion according to the old-style Catholic Gibson was not his nearly-Medieval need to fixate on the horrors of all that torn flesh and spilt, sacred blood. To be sure, he did that out of an ultra-Anselmic belief in the absolute efficacy of sacrificial substitution: the more violence and gore, the greater the treasury of merit. But even that awful film could be—could be—a much-needed corrective to our bland and passionless Protestantism that rushes past all that ‘negativity’ to recover, as quickly as possible, the gentle Jesus who, if he suffers at all, suffers as one whose lips are silently mouthing the words, “No Problem.” I say it could be such a corrective—if viewers of that film, or hearers of The St. Matthew Passion, or readers of the Gospels understood (as on the whole, it seems, they do not!) that the crucified Christ is not just the crucified Christ, an individual ‘back then’ who suffered heroically, but our Representative. And God’s. The cross is our Christian reality-check, and unlike a lot of other religious symbolism (much of it associated with Christmas, alas) the cross doesn’t lie about reality. As Luther put it in the twenty-first thesis of his Heidelberg Disputation, while “the theology of glory” [religious triumphalism] has to lie about life, calling good evil and evil good, the theology of the cross calls the thing what it actually is—it calls a spade a spade ! It says: “Look ! There’s a great deal that simply wrong with this world ! Innocent people suffer, and many guilty ones prosper. Look at all that injustice, that war, that degradation of nature, that death! No, don’t turn away from it! Religion may tempt you to shut your eyes and just ‘enjoy’, but faith wants you to open them. Until you do that, you’ll never be in a position to understand the pain of God—or God’s way of healing pain, either.” To isolate the cross of Golgotha from all the other crosses, from the cross that is creaturely life itself, under the conditions of historical existence, is to miss the point entirely. Good Friday isn’t just about the crucifixion of Jesus. Never was. It’s about the human condition. And it’s about the God who, wishing to be our God and to be “with us” has to take that route—that Via dolorosa. So the cross of the Christ is not just an arbitrary symbol. There’s a discernible—even a “necessary” logic in it (remember the “musts” of Christ’s “Predictions of the Passion”): If the Word God sent was drawn irrevocably to a Jerusalem that was ‘out to get him’, and to the Garden of


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    Sorrows to meet his betrayer, and to the Place of the Skull to die as one forsaken, it is no accident but the consequence of a decision, God’s decision, informed by an all-butunbelievable love. To be “with” the beloved, pathetic, or maybe even tragic creature, the loving Creator must become the suffering Redeemer. But this means that when we contemplate the cross of Jesus Christ—if we contemplate it truly and do not turn it into a “once upon a time” story-with-a-moral (You can’t keep a good man down!)—we are obliged to look, not only on the wounds and the tears of Jesus but of those with whom and for whom Jesus suffers—including God, in whose heart there was a cross, as someone put it, before ever there was one on Golgotha; including all the alienated and abandoned souls of earth; including the whole “groaning” creation. And including ourselves, sitting there in church looking for all the world as though we were happy, well-adjusted men and women, but underneath it all knowing ourselves to be “living lives of quiet desperation” (Thoreau). I know: that’s a lot to ask of people like us, who spend most of our waking hours trying to forget all that, and whose very presence ‘in church’ is in all likelihood a part of our desperate attempt to avoid being desperate.

    + And yet And yet there’s another thing going on in us today, don’t you think? Perhaps it’s always been there. Certainly it’s been there in times of great historical crises, like the plague century, the fourteenth, when some artists (like Matthias Grünewald) depicted the crucified Christ as a victim of the plague. In many individuals today, and perhaps in some strange way in our society at large, there can be noticed something like a need to stop fooling ourselves. It’s hard to carry on the fiction of “all’s right with the world”—at least our world! —when so much is patently and conspicuously wrong with it. Surely we’ve lived with the images of those falling Manhattan towers long enough to stop explaining them in the naïve, grade Β Hollywood movie mythology of a world of good guys and bad guys. Haven’t we grown weary of hearing ourselves whine, “Why do they hate us? We’re nice people!” Isn’t there a kind of longing among us, by now, for something like the sort of truthorientation that could look at the scandalous discrepancy between rich and poor, and the reality of 45 million with AIDS, and a similar number in our own backyard without any medical insurance, and a dangerously heating-up globe, and our own inevitable death, etc., etc.:—in short, haven’t we come to the limits of repressive culture and repressive religion, and don’t we long for truth more, even, than for the “happiness” of …going shopping again? Only those who long for that kind of truth may come to know the truth of Easter, too.

    Notes

    1. Author of The Cross in Our Context: Jesus and the Suffering World (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2003). 2.1 am always reluctant to include Canada in this kind of generalization—not because Canada is less culpable where Modern delusions of grandeur arc concerned, but because, being small and vulnerable, Canada never gave credence to anything as pretentious as ‘the American Dream’. It still doesn’t; and therefore it also resists the present-day ambition of U.S. leadership, which appears to think that America has the right and the duty to export its brave vision to other peoples, whether they want it or not! The


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    Canadian perspective is at best a “pale version” of the American Dream (though modern communications and the ubiquity of American pop-culture have had the unfortunate effect of blurring this distinction). There are important historical, geographic, and religious reasons why Canada never dreamt so big— among them the fact that we have had to live too close to other empires (Britain and the U.S.) ever to dream imperial dreams of our own; as well, our vast land space and climate have been marvelous ‘reality checks’. But it should also be remembered that Protestantism never held sway in Canada in the manner of American Calvinism and Protestant pietism: Roman Catholicism, which has accounted for at least half our religious history and outlook, probably more, shared with classical Lutheranism a lasting suspicion of Modernity. Such a suspicion has not always been admirable, of course; but it has at least constituted a built-in critique of Modern hubris.

  • Preaching in 1 Thessalonians

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    Preaching in 1 Thessalonians

    E. Elizabeth Johnson

    Columbia Theological Seminary, Decatur, Georgia

    The Revised Common Lectionary calls the preacher and the congregation to listen to 1 Thessalonians on only seven Sundays out of 156: one Advent Sunday each in Years Β and C, and five Sundays during the Ordinary Time of Year A. 1 Even the

    passages of 1 Thessalonians that are assigned 2 omit a large central section of the letter.

    Within 1 Thess 2:14-4:12, arguably the most contingent portion of the letter, 3 only 3:9-

    13 is appointed for Lord’s Day proclamation. The pastoral relationship between Paul and his colleagues, on the one hand, and the assembly of the Thessalonians, on the other, is thus explored from the pulpit significantly less frequently than the situations reflected in Romans, 1 and 2 Corinthians, Galatians, Philippians, or even Philemon. 4

    Homiletical preference for narrative over non-narrative texts further contributes to unfamiliarity with or disinterest in 1 Thessalonians. Many preachers share a (perhaps unconscious) assumption that Gospel stories are more accessible than Epistles, that Gospels are less theologically complex, that they are not so difficult to read as Paul’s letters. “Paul places heavy demands on his readers,” concedes my colleague Charlie Cousar. 5 So, I would add, do the Gospels, but that is another story

    for another day. For now, it is enough to observe that preaching from Paul is simply not popular among pastors in mainline churches, 6 which further contributes to

    unfamiliarity with this small letter lodged near the end of the canonical list. Finally, there is no small distrust of 1 Thessalonians because—much like the Revelation to John—many preachers think it has been appropriated, or even hijacked, by millenarian and dispensationalist groups. What comes first to mind about 1 Thessalonians these days is eschatological anxiety: concern that the return of the risen Lord might “leave behind” loved ones who have died (4:13-18) and urgent exhortation to prepare for the judgment day (5:1-11). It is not only churches with lively expecta­ tions of the eschaton for whom 1 Thessalonians carries this reputation. While the annual Bible Content Test administered by the Presbyteries Cooperative Committee of the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) may not quite be the gold standard for biblical literacy, it is nevertheless widely used to assess knowledge of the content of scripture. In the history ofthat examination, questions have called for identification of precisely three verses from 1 Thessalonians:

    But we do not want you to be uninformed, brothers and sisters, about those who have died, so that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope. (4:13; NRSV)

    Then we who are alive, who are left, will be caught up in the clouds together with them to meet the Lord in the air; and so we will be with the Lord forever. (4:17; NRSV)

    For you yourselves know very well that the Day of the Lord will come like a thief in the night. (5:2; NRSV)


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    Each of these three verses concerns matters of eschatology and is drawn from the relatively small section of the letter 4:13-5:11. Similarly, the only verse from 2 Thessalonians ever to appear on the Bible Content Test is 3:10, which addresses eschatological confusion: “For even when we were with you, we gave you this command: Anyone unwilling to work should not eat” (NRSV). One might reasonably conclude from this that Paul’s chief worry about the Thessalonians is their attitude toward the end of the world. The introductory paragraphs accompanying 1 and 2 Thessalonians in most study Bibles similarly lead readers to think the letters concern this subject alone. There is good reason to lament unfamiliarity with 1 Thessalonians and disinterest in or distrust of it. The letter can again offer an evangelical “word on target”7 for us when we read it on its own terms rather than simply as part of a debate about eschatology since its true center of gravity is not the cosmic future but the present life of the church. Eschatology is by no means the sole or even primary subject in 1 Thessalonians. In point of fact, discussion of the end times comprises only thirteen percent of the letter. Paul’s assurance that the Lord will not abandon Christians who have died and his exhortations about the Day of the Lord (4:13-5:11) occupy a single page of the letter’s seven-and-one-half pages in the Nestle text. Although anxiety about the destinies of believers who have died is very real, as is the church’s anticipation of the eschaton, these are scarcely the only matters that occupy Paul’s attention in the letter. This may sound like a peculiar claim in view of Paul’s repeated references to the parousia, the appearing of the risen Lord:8

    For they themselves report what sort of access we had to you, and how you turned to God from idols to serve the living and true God and to await his Son from the heavens whom he raised from the dead, Jesus, the one who rescues us from impending wrath. (1:9-10)9

    For who is our hope or joy or crown of boasting before our Lord Jesus at his appearing if is it not you? (2:19)

    May the Lord cause love for one another and for all to increase and abound just as we also have love for you, in order that he might strengthen your hearts blameless in holiness before our God and Father at the appearing of our Lord Jesus with all his saints.(3:12-13)

    For we say this to you with a word of the Lord, that we who live, who are left behind at the appearing of the Lord, will never precede those who sleep. (4:15)

    May the God of peace himself make you completely holy, and may he keep your spirit and soul and body sound and blameless at the appearing of our Lord Jesus Christ. (5:23)

    Each reference to Jesus’ parousia stands at a critical turning point in the letter’s structure. The first three mark transitions within the letter’s thanksgiving—Paul’s


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    gratitude for the Thessalonians’ faithfulness to the gospel (1:2-8) and for their faithfulness to the apostolic mission team (2:1-18), and his prayer for their continued faithfulness (3:1 -10)—and the fifth initiates the letter’s concluding benediction (5:2328 ). Only the fourth mention of parousia, at 4:15, occurs in the context of discussion of the end times. The recurrence of this image of the Lord’s appearing serves as something like the letter’s heartbeat, the steady rhythm that moves it from beginning to end. The apostle sounds a persistent note of reminder throughout 1 Thessalonians that the risen Christ is both the source of the church’s faithfulness and the guarantor ofthat faithfulness. Jesus’ parousia, Jesus’ appearing, Jesus’ presence in the church carries at once the reality of God’s election and the promise of redemption. Jesus is “the one who rescues us from the impending wrath” (1:10), the risen Christ who will gather his church to himself at the last trumpet (4:16; cf. 1 Cor 15:52). He is also, however, the one through whom the Thessalonians bring their faithful work, loving labor, and hopeful endurance into the very presence of God (1:3), the one who makes the faithful church a crown of boasting for the apostles (2:19), the one who pours into believers’ hearts his own love such that their love becomes known beyond their own fellowship ( 1:8; 3:12; 4:10), and the one who sanctifies the church and assures its holiness so that it may stand in the presence of the holy God (3:13; 5:23). This assurance of Jesus’ parousia that suffuses 1 Thessalonians stems from an emphatically apocalyptic conviction that is by no means limited to eschatology. The word “apocalyptic” commonly denotes doom and destruction, the end of things, the demise of the world. Francis Ford Coppola’s 1979 film Apocalypse Now captured well the popular sense of the term. The war in Vietnam signaled to Coppola the end of personal morality and the collapse of national virtue. Despite longstanding theological habits, though, as well as popular usage, “apocalyptic” should not be used interchangeably with “eschatological.”10 The word “apocalyptic” means “revealed” or “revelatory”; “eschatological” describes convictions about the end of history, the day of God’s redemption. Jewish and Christian apocalypses of the first century often contain eschatology, visions of God’s plan to rescue the covenant people and bring justice and healing to a fallen world. Christian writers like Paul, however, do not look forward only to the Day of the Lord, but also claim God has already initiated the era of redemption in the death and resurrection of Jesus. Paul is concerned far less with the cosmic future than with the transformation of the human present. He speaks more of the way things are than the way things will be. The new age inaugurated in Christ is scarcely complete, since the church and the world continue to struggle against the power of sin and under the burden of death, but it has surely begun. The resurrection of Jesus, God’s justification of sinners, and the Spirit’s presence in the church provide a present foretaste of the glory that is yet to come. Paul clearly anticipates the return of the risen Lord in his own near future. Believers are “those upon whom the end of the ages has come” (1 Cor 10:11), for whom “the appointed time has grown short” (7:29). The revelation that has changed Paul’s life, however, has comparatively little to do with turning the pages of the heavenly calendar or watching the rushing hands on the cosmic clock. The apocalypse that defines Paul’s gospel is rather the cross of Jesus Christ, the revelation of God’s new creation (2 Cor 5:17; Gal 6:15). The new creation, unlike the one portrayed in Genesis, is not a matter of God’s planting a garden and filling it with plants, animals, and human beings. Paul’s


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    language is much more radical. J. Louis Martyn examines the language of new creation in Galatians to show that for Paul the new creation is nothing less than the invasion of God’s righteousness; it sets aside the old world held captive to sin and death and liberates enemy-occupied territory.11 The new creation is marked not by power but by weakness, not by human wisdom but by divine foolishness. It is a new world that finds life in the midst of death and glory in the midst of suffering and humiliation. The new creation turns upside down the most treasured of human values and replaces them with Jesus’ cross. Paul’s gospel discloses the present life of the church under the impact of the cross of Christ as well as its destiny in the triumph of God.12 The Christian community is thus cruciform, shaped by the revelation that Jesus’ death shows God’s love for the world. The life revealed in the death of Christ is self-giving, powerrenouncing , death-denying. The cross redefines even love in terms of itself. The life brought into being by the gospel of Christ crucified is the corporate life of the church that God has loved so decisively that the church becomes able to lay down its own life for the world God loves. Earlier investigations of the function of apocalyptic language explained it largely in terms of ethical warrant: righteous living will be rewarded and wickedness punished at the last judgment.13 Paul says some things that sound like that in 1 Thessalonians: at 1:10 he says Jesus is the one who rescues us from imminent divine wrath; at 4:6 he says God will avenge those who are wronged. Most of this letter, however, reflects the apocalypse of Christ that reorders the world the church inhabits. It results for Christians in the reversal of prevailing cultural values, the dismantling of the social economy of honor and shame, and the replacement of conventional morality with the radical claims of the gospel. Paul’s portrayal of his mission in Thessalonica in 2:1-12 illustrates the point. Interpreters have engaged in lively debate about rhetorical and epistolographic functions of this section of the letter.14 Some claim that chapter 2 offers an apology that answers accusations aimed at him from the Thessalonians. On this reading, some in the church have criticized Paul and his coworkers of peddling their message for money or of flattering their listeners in order to win support. Paul’s response then is to deny such base motives and assert instead the divine source of his message and the authenticity of the apostolic ministry in Thessalonica. The more persuasive argument, though, notes first the overwhelmingly laudatory tone of the letter—Paul does not seem to be under attack anywhere in this letter but instead praises the church repeatedly for its faithfulness to the gospel and to himself. There are remarkable similarities between Paul’s language in 1 Thessalonians and the conventional contrasts firstcentury popular philosophical teachers draw between themselves and their competitors . 15 Paul rehearses the origins and character of his relationship with the Thessalonian Christians (not only in chapter 2 but throughout the letter) for the purpose not of defending himself but rather of encouraging the church.16 The rehearsal of Paul’s pastoral history with the congregation in 2:1-12 supplies one reason for his abundant thanksgiving to God:17 “For you yourselves know, brothers and sisters, that our access to you has not come to nothing” (2:1). The multiple kinship images clustered in this brief passage are noteworthy:

    Although we might have been able to throw our weight around as apostles of Christ, we became instead babies1* in your midst, as a wet nurse might


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    care tenderly for her own children, so because we long for you we are pleased to hand over to you not only the gospel of God but even our own lives, because you have become beloved to us. For you remember, brothers and sisters, our labor and toil, how we worked night and day so that we might not weigh any of you down when we preached to you the gospel of God. You are witnesses, as is God, how we came to you believers in a holy and just and blameless way, as you know, how with each one of y ou we were as di father with his own children as we exhorted you and pled with you and testified to you that you might walk in a way that is worthy of the God who calls you into his own glorious realm…. But when we were orphaned from you, brothers and sisters, for a brief season—and only physically, not emotionally—we longed all the more eagerly to see you in person. (2:7-12, 17)

    Paul refers to himself and his apostolic colleagues in a single brief paragraph as infant child, the nursing mother, the brother, the father, and orphan of the church they have established in Thessalonica. Each of the metaphors alone—with the exceptions of the infant and the orphan—occurs commonly in the first century. Philosophers frequently hold up wet nurses as the epitome of gentle instruction that takes account of a listener’s frailty, teachers often assume paternal responsibility for their students, and several religious communities use sibling language to referto themselves. No one but Paul, though, claims both the role of the infant and the nursing mother at the same time. The apostolic mission takes on the astonishing weakness of a newborn and the precarious vulnerability of an orphan, the tender love of a nursing mother and the guiding authority of a father—and all of them in the same paragraph!— because that mission is cruciform in character, shaped by the love and vulnerability of the cross of Christ. This is what Paul elsewhere describes as power made perfect in weakness and wisdom revealed in foolishness. Although the gospel that God has entrusted to the apostles gives them power to “throw [their] weight around” (2:7) that gospel instead shapes their ministry according to the model of Christ. The central concern of 1 Thessalonians, then, is not so much the church’s proper construal of God’s eschatological timetable as the formative function of Christian proclamation. Far more pervasive in 1 Thessalonians than discussion of the end times is this concern for preaching and its effects. Paul variously calls his proclamation the word, the word of the Lord, or the word of God (1:6,8; 2:13 [bis] 4:15,18),19 the gospel (1:5; 2:2, 8, 9; 3:2, 6), exhortation or comfort (2:3; cf. 2:12; 3:2; 4:1, 10; 5:11), command (4:2,11), and prophecy (5:20). It is instructive to consider the verbs he uses when he talks about preaching. He customarily uses verbs of speaking and hearing with euangelion, “gospel,” and he does so in 1 Thessalonians at 2:2,9. Elsewhere in the letter, though, the gospel is more than the specific words he speaks or his listeners hear. God entrusts the gospel to Paul and his coworkers (2:4) and they in turn hand it over to the Thessalonians (2:8). Nowhere is there such a clear picture of the preacher as intermediary between God and the church. The only use of the verb euangelizomai in 1 Thessalonians describes what happens when Timothy reports to Paul that the Thessalonians have stood firm in the faith despite opposition and suffering (3:6). The safety and well-being of the church are themselves gospel to the apostle, since “we now live since you stand firm in the Lord” (3:8). Paul thanks God that the gospel


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    “happened”20 to the Thessalonians “in power and in the Holy Spirit and with complete conviction” rather than in word alone ( 1:5).21 The Thessalonians receive the word (1:6; 2:13) and it “sounds forth” from them (1:8). Paul says the word of the gospel did not occur among the Thessalonians as a word of flattery or as a disguise for greed (2:5) but in purity and authenticity from those to whom God entrusted it (2:4). The Thessalonians received this word with joy (1:5) and in great tribulation (1:6). The apostles delivered to the church not only the gospel but also their own lives (2:8). The word of the gospel thus is never entirely circumscribed by the words uttered by human preachers because it comes from “the God who gives you his Holy Spirit” (4:8). This largeness and otherness of the word of proclamation and its power to save determine the several specific consequences of preaching as Paul speaks of it in 1 Thessalonians. Those who hear the word preach it to others (1:8; 4:18). The church encounters resistance and struggle from those who refuse its message; indeed suffering is to be expected and embraced rather than avoided because that confirms rather than disconfirms the truth of gospel (2:14-16 3:3-4,7). The word of the cross, as he calls the gospel in 1 Cor 1:18, inevitably subjects those who preach it and those who believe it to the same destiny their Lord experienced. “We told you ahead of time,” he says, “that we were about to be beset by tribulation, and so it has happened and so you know” (1 Thess 3:4). The gospel further reorients the priorities of the Christian community it creates: it is not the living but the dead whom the Lord of glory summons first to himself (4:16-17); the church is called to care with its ministry not for the strong and the hearty of faith but for the weak, the fainthearted, and idlers (5:14). Paul sees the church called into being and nurtured by Christian proclamation as a community that looks like its Lord. It lives at once in hopeful anticipation of Jesus’ appearing in glory to reveal God’s triumphant sovereignty over creation and in loving and faithful labor that discloses the power of Jesus ‘ cross to save creation. The church’s life together demonstrates the self-giving character of God’s love in its own granting precedence to the least among its membership. First Thessalonians thus may offer the church in Eastertide an opportunity to hold cross and resurrection together in faithful tension at a time when less subtle preaching might instead allow Easter to wipe out Good Friday.

    Notes 1. The same can be said about 2 Thessalonians, which appears on only three Sundays of the three-year cycle. Those lections also represent disconnected fragments of the letter. 2. 1 Thess 1:1-10; 2:1-8; 2:9-13: 3:9-13; 4:13-18; 5:1-11; 5:16-24. 3. Contingency here refers to the specific context to which a letter responds. J. Christiaan Beker uses the language of “coherence” and “contingency” to describe the relationship between Paul’s gospel and the particular ecclesiastical situations to which he writes interpreting that gospel (“Recasting Pauline Theology: The Coherence-Contingency Scheme as Interpretive Model,” 15-24 in Pauline Theology: Volume I: Thessalonians, Philippians, Galatians, Philemon, ed. Jouette M. Bassler [Minneapolis: Fortress, 1994] ; idem, Paul the Apostle: The Triumph of God in Life and Thought [Philadelphia: Fortress, 1980]). 4. Philemon (all but its concluding four verses) is the Epistle reading for the twenty-third Sunday in Ordinary Time (Year C). 5. Charles B. Cousar, The Letters of Paul (IBT; Nashville: Abingdon, 1996), 15. 6. James W. Thompson encourages a reversal of the trend with his helpful Preaching Like Paul: Homiletical Wisdom for Today (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2001). 7. The language is Beker’s : “The letter form, then, with its combination of particularity and authoritative claim, suggests … the historical concreteness of the gospel as a word on target in the midst of human.


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    contingent specificity” {Paul the Apostle, 24). 8. Outside the NT, parousia frequently denotes the appearance or visit of a ruler among subjects; sometimes in the New Testament it also describes the return of the risen Lord in glory (Albrecht Oepke, “parousia, pareimi” TDNT[961] 5.858-871). Paul is the least consistent NT writer. Of 24 occurrences of the word, Paul accounts for 11 ; of those, only five refer to the eschatological appearing of Christ. Only in 1 Thessalonians does Paul use the word to speak exclusively of the appearing of the Lord, and the only place outside this letter that he mentions the Lord’s parousia is 1 Cor 15:23: “Christ the first fruits [of resurrection], then at his appearing those who belong to Christ.” More frequently, Paul uses pareimi and parousia to describe his own appearing among his churches (1 Cor 5:3; 2 Cor 10:2, 11 ; 11:9; 13:2, 10; Gal 4:13). See R. W. Funk, “The Apostolic Parousia: Form and Significance.” in Christian History and Interpretation: Studies Presented to John Knox, ed. W. R. Farmer, C. F. D. Moule, R. R. Niebuhr (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1967), 249-268. 9. NT translations are mine unless otherwise indicated. 10.1 argue this point in greater detail in “Apocalyptic Family Values,” Interpretation 56 (2002): 34-44, as does Martinus C. DeBoer, “Paul, Theologian of God’s Apocalypse,” Interpretation 56 (2002): 21-33. ll.J. Louis Martyn, Galatians (AB33A; New York: Doubleday, 1997) 97-105; idem, Theological Issues in the Letters of Paul (Nashville: Abingdon, 1997) 85-156. 12. Beker’s astute observation that God’s imminent victory stands at the heart of Paul’s apocalyptic gospel is helpfully expanded by Martyn’s treatment. See Martyn’s review of Beker’s Paul the Apostle in Theological Issues in the Letters of Paul, 176-181. 13. John G. Gager, Kingdom and Community: The Social World of Early Christianity (Englewood Cliffs: Prentice-Hall, 1975), 49-57; Wayne A. Meeks, The First Urban Christians (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983). For a specific application of that understanding of apocalyptic language to 1 Thessalonians, see Abraham J. Malherbe, The Letters to the Thessalonians (AB 32B; New York: Doubleday, 2000). 14. See the essays collected in Karl P. Donfried and Johannes Beutler, eds., The Thessalonians Debate: Methodological Discord or Methodological Synthesis? (Grand Rapids, Eerdmans. 2000), particularly the initial essay by Donfried, “The Scope and Nature of the Debate: An Introduction and Some Questions,” 3-27. 15. Abraham J. Malherbe, Paul and the Thessalonians: The Philosophic Tradition of Pastoral Care (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987); Paul and the Popular Philosophers (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1989). 16. Interpretations written from a similar perspective are Beverly Roberts Gaventa, First and Second Thessalonians (Inf, Louisville: John Knox, 1998); Charles B. Cousar, Reading Galatians, Philippians, and 1 Thessalonians: A Literary and Theological Commentary (RNT; Macon, Ga.: Smyth & Helwys, 2001), 191-235. 17. First Thessalonians contains the longest thanksgiving of any of Paul’s extant letters. It extends from 1:2 through 3:13. Gaventa notes wryly, “there is more thanksgiving here than interpreters know how to handle” {First and Second Thessalonians, 13). 18. Gaventa’s text-critical argument in support of wê/?/o/,”babies”over êp/o/,”gcntle” {First and Second Thessalonians, 26-27) is stronger than Malherbe’ s case for êpioi in The Letters to the Thessalonians, 145147 . 19. Compare also the contrast between God’s word and human words in 1 Thess 2:5, 13; 4:8. 20. Or “came” or “appeared” or “occurred,” however we choose to render the verb ginomai. 21. First Thessalonians has a large concentration of forms of the verb ginomai, “become” or “happen” or “appear,” in addition to describing what happens to the word of proclamation. The other instances of ginomai rehearse the relationship between the mission team and the Thessalonians who “became” the church in that city. “You became imitators of us and of the Lord” (1:6); “you became a model to all believers” (1:7); “our entrance to you has not become empty” (2:1); “wc became infants among you, as a nurse might care tenderly for her own children” (2:7); “you became dear to us” (2:8); “we became holy, just, and blameless to you” (2:10); “you became imitators of the church of God in Judea” (2:14); “I sent [Timothy] so that I might know your faith, lest the tempter tempt you and our labor become empty” (3:5). These reminders of what “happened” in the formation of the Thessalonian church are clustered in the first three chapters, the thanksgiving period, which points to the importance throughout the letter of the pastoral relationship between the Pauline mission team and the Thessalonian Christians. Paul Schubert’ s classic study demonstrated that the issues raised in a letter’s thanksgiving telegraph at the outset the primary concerns of the letter {The Form and Function of the Pauline Thanksgiving [BZNW 20; Berlin: Töpelmann, 1939]).

  • What happened to narrative preaching?

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    What Happened to Narrative Preaching?

    Thomas G. Long Candler School of Theology, Emory University, Atlanta, Georgia

    We need figures or mirrors to display spiritual and heavenly things to our sight in an earthly kind of way. Otherwise they would be beyond our reach. John Calvin

    Recently I was talking with an accomplished pastor, one whose serious and creative preaching and nimble leadership have in the last decade helped to revitalize an “Old First Church” congregation into a place of vibrant worship and social witness. “When I was in seminary [twenty-five years ago],” he said, “we were all fascinated with ‘narrative preaching.’ But you know, I don’t think any of us would be enchanted with that approach today.” What did he mean? Is this pastor representative of others? Has today’s pulpit indeed fallen out of love with the storytelling style? Was narrative preaching, all the rage in the 1970s and 1980s, merely the “pink bathroom” of homiletical fashion, a once-trendy innovation that has now seen its day? In 1980, when this pastor was in seminary, the authors of the state-of-the-art textbook Preaching the Story engaged in a bit of rhetorical flourish when they declared they were searching around for the perfect master image to gather up the whole of the preaching task in a single stitch. “We are trying,” they said,

    to find that formative image that could both articulate what preaching is and free people to do it. Is there an image adequate to shape the form, content, and style of preaching? If we had to say, in a word or two, or in a picture, what preaching is and how it is done well, what would that phrase or picture be? … Let us consider the storyteller. … If we were pressed to say what Christian faith and life are, we could hardly do better than hearing, telling, and living a story. And if asked for a short definition of preaching, could we do better than shared story?1

    Of course, what these authors said they were trying so hard to find, and finally claimed to discover, the key image of preaching as “shared story,” had already been found, several times before as a matter of fact. A decade earlier, story preaching had already begun to be the hot topic among homileticians, and even this was not the first time. Indeed, a preference for narrative sermons springs up periodically in American church history, usually whenever preaching has run out of steam and gone flat, didactic, and dogmatic.2 So what Preaching the Story hailed as a breakthrough was, in fact, just the Haley’s Comet of narrative preaching come around again, this time in reaction to the staid one-two-three rationalistic sermons of the 1950s. By the midseventies , the interest in narrative preaching had grown strong enough that the Academy of Homiletics (a professional guild of preaching professors) devoted an entire annual meeting to thrashing it over. So when the authors of Preaching the Story said they had found “shared story” as the central image for preaching, they were less


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    crying “Eureka!” over a discovery and more reporting an emerging consensus in the field. Narrative preaching, whatever it was, was now in vogue. Two observations can be made about this eruption of interest in story preaching in the 1970s and 1980s. First, the move toward narrative began as a shift in practice before it was a shift in theory. The dance between theory and practice is always a delicate choreography, and in some fields – molecular physics, for example – theory almost always takes the lead. In homiletics, however, the opposite is usually true. Some preacher out in the field devises (or, more likely, falls into) some new way of preaching, and it catches fire. Only later and in retrospect do the theoreticians move in to analyze and criticize the innovation. Jonathan Edwards’ use of religious affection to modify the Puritan plain style sermon, Finney’s new-style approach to evangelistic preaching, Beecher’s theatrical illustrations, Fosdick’s counseling from the pulpit, Barbara Brown Taylor’s luminous memoirs – the history of American preaching is replete with examples of preachers who intuitively forged some innovation that was widely imitated by other preachers and only later dissected by theoreticians. The same is true for the shift toward story preaching in the 1970s. As a movement, it has become associated with the name of Fred Craddock, one of the most influential preachers and homileticians of our time, but ironically, Craddock was not the main voice in the period calling for narrative preaching and, in fact, his own theoretical approach to preaching, which he called “inductive preaching,” is not actually narrative at all. Inductive preaching is essentially a proposal about sermon structure and logic, a method of sermon construction that places value upon suspenseful, exploratory, endstress sermons in which the listeners are dialogically involved throughout the sermon process and actually participate in forming the sermon’s conclusion.3 Craddock defined inductive preaching over against “deductive preaching,” by which he meant sermons in which the preacher thrusts already formed conclusions toward the listeners in a point one-point two-point three fashion. An inductive sermon can include stories, of course, but there is nothing about inductive movement per se that demands them. It was, rather, Craddock’s practice more than his theory that put him in the forefront of the renaissance of narrative preaching. Craddock’s sermons, with their deft blend of angular biblical exegesis, wry humor, and homespun stories hit the American pulpit like the Beatles hit the charts. The American church had grown weary of the grandiloquent pulpit princes with their big voices and their so-called biblical principles and their dramatic gestures and their teachy sermons and their overblown moral lessons. The times were ripe for change, and along comes Craddock with his winsome style and different voice and ability to see the New Testament churches just like the churches down the road, telling stories about milking cows and chance conversations on airplanes. Craddock sounded less like pulpit royalty and more like a wise man on a country porch, and his sermons moved on the refreshing winds of everyday stories. Suddenly pulpits everywhere were filled with imitators, beginning their sermons not with “Dear Christian friends, I wish to tell you three things this morning about the power of prayer,” but “When I was a boy there was in our little town an old man with a wrinkled face who worked in Gibson’s Hardware….” The second observation about the move toward story preaching in the 1970s and 1980s is that, when homileticians began to refract the practice of story preaching through theoretical lenses, the single bright light of narrative became a rainbow of different approaches and methods. Why was story preaching so powerful and so


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    effective? Opinions differed. Some homileticians decided that narrative preaching is effective because the human mind itself is a narrative factory that takes raw, unmediated experience and turns it into story-shaped meanings and memories. Thus, the best sermons are shaped like narratives and bear “homiletical plots.” Others found the power of story preaching to be in its capacity to evoke long-forgotten sacred experiences, “memories of Eden.” Some saw the power of narrative to reside in its imagery and evocative language, or in its capacity to generate identification with characters, and still others said that the power of narrative preaching came through its replication of the narrative qualities of scripture. Homiletical theory engaged homiletical practice and, as a result, generated more practices, a multitude of them. With the concept of the pulpit as the place to “tell the story” firmly in hand, the late 1970s and 1980s became a highly experimental time in American preaching. Dialogue sermons, short-story sermons, first-person sermons, pantomime sermons, image-rich sermons, confessional sermons, and more – the varieties were endless, but all of them riffs on the notion that good preaching was somehow story-shaped, story-saturated, story-driven. For an American pulpit thrown overboard by the general hostility and apathy toward preaching generated in the late 1960s, the idea of story preaching brought an infusion of energy, excitement, and purpose to preaching, and the narrative approach was seized like a life preserver. Also, the word “story” was big enough for everybody to find room for all manners of innovations and self-expression. Everything, it seemed, could claim to be story preaching. From the very beginning, however, there were doubters. Even in the early rush of excitement over narrative preaching, some homileticians soured quickly on the tendency of story sermons to become sloppy, amateurish, undisciplined, and selfindulgent . For example, Ronald Sleeth at Iliff School of Theology began speaking out in the mid-1970s against “private parables in the name of self-expression,” and held out for a return to the then outmoded idea that preachers should get their main ideas, or points, from the Bible and should design sermons to clearly convey those ideas to the listeners. He said,

    Surprisingly, there is a great deal of negative reaction to the idea that a sermon should have a clear, main idea that controls the sermon. Some suggest that we live in a frenetic, kaleidoscopic world where persons do not think logically, and we apprehend material holistically through an all-atonceness To these persons, a thesis suggests a rationalistic discourse…. Yet, many sermons fail, simply because they are not clear. Preachers will raise several ideas in the beginning of a sermon and either develop one, or several, or none. People do not know what it is all about, and it becomes a mystery hour. What some take for creativity and expressive language may in reality be evidence of a fuzzy mind.4

    At the time, Sleeth’s demurral sounded simply like the last gasp of the old school, but lately, as my pastor acquaintance suggested, many have begun to have second thoughts about the whole narrative preaching approach. In fact, shots at story preaching are now flying fast and furiously from the right, the middle, and the left. From the right, evangelicals were slow to warm to story preaching and quick to cool


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    to it. Narrative preaching was always thought to be too soft, too doctrinally unclear, too ethically ambiguous, and too shy about evangelism. Recently, James W. Thompson at Abilene Christian University has done a very sophisticated critique of the approach of Craddock and the narrative homiletical school and pointed to several significant shortcomings. Among other drawbacks, Thompson argues, the narrative and inductive style of homiletics wrongly assumes a Christian culture already in place, focuses on the form of the sermon to the neglect of the larger theological aims of the sermon, limits the capacities of hearers to think rationally and reflectively about the faith, is reluctant to press demands for ethical change, and is weak at building and sustaining communities of faith.5 Thompson’s charge that “inductive preaching functions best in a Christian culture in which listeners are well informed of the Christian heritage” and his complaint that such preaching “will not build and sustain communities of faith”6 overlap with the main developing concerns of theological moderates about the narrative style. The cluster of preaching styles associated with narrative have mainly depended for their effectiveness on evoking with aesthetic power long dormant Christian memories and convictions. They work best, in other words, among people who have been well taught and well organized in church but who have been bored, lulled to sleep, and who have not experienced the delight of the gospel. In that narcotic environment, narrative approaches are refreshing stimulants, exciting counters to old ways of “doing church.” But in a culture in which those memories, convictions, and churchly patterns are not there to evoke and revivify, narrative preaching can easily end up being like a massage at a spa, a pleasurable aesthetic experience without content or goal. In his powerfully argued book Preaching Jesus, Charles L. Campbell claims that a good bit of what passes for narrative preaching has been fastened to the wrong stories, consisting of anecdotes of human experience or alleged plot structures in the imagination , rather than the gospel narrative of Jesus. “[W]hat is important for Christian preaching,” he says, “is not ‘stories’ in general or even ‘homiletical plots’, but rather a specific story that renders the identity of a particular person.. .Preaching that ignores the ascriptive logic of the gospels—grammatically, preaching in which Jesus is not the subject of his own predicates—comes in for critique.”7 More recently, it has been critics from the left who have expressed profound displeasure with the “new homiletics,” narrative preaching, and “soft hermeneutics.” In fact, their attacks are the most severe of all since they allege that practitioners of the new homiletics are not merely rhetorically mistaken, theologically misguided, or trendy, but they have committed far more serious offenses: potential oppression and abuse of power. What are the crimes? They are, in fact, the very virtues claimed by the narrative preachers, that they speak the gospel from and to the common experiences of the hearers. If I understand one of the points that a sharp critic on the left, John McClure, is making in his crabbed and often difficult lament Other-wise Preaching, it is that the kind of stories that Craddock-like preachers tend to tell carry the implied message, “Here is an everyday experience that we all have had or could have had, and if you really knew how to look at this experience, you would recognize it as a sacred experience.” But in this seemingly gentle gesture of telling such stories, these preachers, McClure seems to say, have exercised their privileged positions of power to grind down all human differences, have lifted their own views of experience to the


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    level of the universal and commanded the hearers to fit their lives into this frame, and have insisted that people see God at work in every little nook and cranny of life and in just the way the preachers do, all the while hiding behind a false front of seemingly neutral and objective but really power-laden language. McClure aims right for the cozy gospel storytellers (among others) when he says,

    God should not become too accessible, too easily located, too easily associated with symbols elevated to kerygmatic status within the tradition.. .or associated with symbols that may derive their meanings from subtle juxtapositions with what are largely hegemonic forms of human experience .8

    I, myself, am chastened and instructed by all of these criticisms – from the left, the right, and the middle – but finally not fully persuaded by any of them. To be sure, what has been for the last thirty years called “narrative preaching” has too often devolved into a hodgepodge of sentimental pseudo-art, confused rhetorical strategies, and competing theological epistemologies. Preachers have larded sermons with silly stories of their cats and their children, told anecdotes from the playground to illustrate Golgotha, told hundreds of stories about certain kinds of people and shut out others, and crafted shifty trapdoor plots to keep the listeners amused. If the effect of these critiques is to burn away this kind of story stubble, then burn, baby, burn. But, at its best, the narrative impulse in preaching grows out of a deep sense of the character, shape, and epistemology of the gospel. If preaching is a sacramental meeting place between the church and the word, the hearers and the gospel, then the substance of preaching is shaped by scripture and by human experience under the sign of grace, and both of these aspects call for narration. If we are to be faithful to the biblical testimony, we will not always speak in a narrative voice – humanity does not live by narrative alone but by every word that comes from the mouth of God – but finally we are compelled to tell the Story and the stories of the God who has acted mightily in many and diverse ways and most profoundly in the raising of Jesus of Nazareth from the dead. Moreover, if the preaching of the gospel is, as Calvin would have it, a means by which “the children of Adam and Eve become the children of Christ,”9 then we will have to tell the storied experiences of both kinds of children, stories of tragedy and stories of hope. In this way, preaching bears a similarity to the Eucharist. We come from the ambiguities and brokenness of our lives to the Lord’s Table, and there we encounter a gracious and benevolent God who gives and gives and gives. When we get up from that Table, our vision has been changed, transfigured, so that we now see the world as it truly is, as the theater of the glory of God to which it is our duty and delight to say “thank you, thank you, thank you.” Likewise, if we come to the “audible sacrament” of preaching, and there encounter the One who speaks to us the life-giving promises, then it is the task of preaching not only to announce those promises and to reflect on them, but also to imagine what shape a life formed in thanksgiving and praise might take. This means that preaching is in part a dress rehearsal for going to out to Main Street, to Wal-Mart, to the neighbor’s house, and to the funeral home and living as those who are not afraid to tell the truth about the fractures they see in human experience because they are also ones who see God’s grace and judgment at work in


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    those places. This dress rehearsal will require stories – not stories told for their aesthetic pleasure or power alone – but stories of human experiences told as only the eyes of faith can see them. So, my preacher friend was right. The giddy season of “short stories for Christ,” artsy “I am Lydia, the seller of purple” first-person sermons, and “three stories and a poem” preaching is coming to an end, and good riddance. None of us is as enchanted by that kind of story sermon as perhaps we once were or is convinced that somehow “Narrative Saves.” We also know that the cycles of homiletical history will surely repeat themselves. At some point in the future, American preaching will once more become stuffy and stale and dogmatic, and when it does, a new generation of preachers will “discover” narrative preaching for the first time…again. But as for now, a chastened, revised, theologically more astute, and biblically engaged form of narrative preaching endures, and will continue to endure. It has learned much from the display of rhetorical techniques and the rush of adrenalin injected by the poets, the plot-makers, and the narrative artists who have dominated homiletics for the last three decades, but it has finally returned to its theological base. How can we know if our “narrative preaching” is faithful to the gospel or just a bunch of stories? Perhaps the most reliable measure is whether or not the life of the church is nourished by such preaching and finds itself more and more formed in the image of Christ. Faithful preaching is not story time; it is instead the spoken word at the epicenter of a community of courageous testimony. Such preaching models the vocabulary, the hospitable style of talking, the humility, the prayerful seeking, the awareness of ambiguity, the confident hope, and the gospel-storied shape of the lives of people who will talk to their children about their faith and bear witness in the world to the overwhelming generosity of God.

    Notes

    1. Edmund Steimle, Morris J. Niedenthal, and Charles L. Rice, Preaching the Story (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1980), 12-13. 2. See David S. Reynolds, “From Doctrine to Narrative: The Rise of Pulpit Storytelling in America,” American Quarterly 32 (Winter 1980): 479-498. 3. Fred B. Craddock, As One Without Authority (Nashville: Abingdon, 1971), 51-76. 4. Ronald E. Sleeth, God’s Word and Our Words: Basic Homiletics (Atlanta: John Knox Press, 1986), 44. This book brought together a number of Sleeth’s lectures and articles from the mid-1970s until his untimely death in 1985. 5. James W. Thompson, Preaching Like Paul: Homiletical Wisdom for Today (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2001), 9-14. 6. Ibid., 9, 14. 7. Charles L. Campbell, Preaching Jesus: New Directions for Homiletics in Hans Frei’s Postliberal Theology (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997), 192-193. 8. John S. McClure, Other-wise Preaching: A Postmodern Ethic for Homiletics (St. Louis: Chalice Press, 2001), 81. 9. B.A. Gerrish, Grace and Gratitude: The Eucharistie Theology of John Calvin (Philadelphia; Fortress Press, 1993), 89.

  • Beyond fear, fundamentalism, and Fox News: the active hope of the advent

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    Beyond Fear, Fundamentalism, and Fox News:

    The Active Hope of Advent

    Stephen R. Montgomery

    Idlewild Presbyterian Church, Memphis, Tennessee

    I have a friend who remembers the days when his wife and two small children were able to drop him off at LaGuardia Airport in New York and go outside on the deck to watch the plane depart. They would see their father board the plane, watch while the plane taxied down the runway, and then set their sights on the aircraft as it took off, growing smaller and smaller until it disappeared into the sky. When the oldest child was about four, it came time for the whole family to take a trip on an airplane. He was unusually anxious as the day approached, full of energy and apprehension. After they had boarded the plane and buckled their seatbelts, he tightened up and began to scrunch up in his seat as the plane taxied down the runway. “What are you doing, son?” his mother asked. ‘Tm waiting to shrink and disappear.” Many of us remember the days when we could laugh at our children’s fears—not to their faces, of course—but we knew there wasn’t a boogeyman under the bed, that eating broccoli would not cause trees to grow out of their ears. We would laugh silently, hold them tight, and remind them that there was nothing to fear. In a post 9/11, post-Katrina, terror-filled world, it has become increasingly difficult for all of us, children and adults, to remain immune from feeling the kind of despair and fear that seems to permeate our culture. The principalities and powers have become quite adept at preying upon those fears. If a president mentions the “war on terror” enough times, all other issues are trumped. Homeland Security reinforces that fear as the colors change from orange to red. We are even told by certain religious leaders to fear gays and lesbians as the threat to the American family. Fear dominates the ethos of our time. Advent arrives in the midst of despair and fear, for whether we read of the pathosfilled trust of those in exile, of a grizzled desert preacher who has come to “make straight the way of the Lord” (John 1:23), or of a stranger visiting a young girl with the preposterous news that “nothing is impossible with God” (Luke 1:37), we just might discover that we have nothing to fear except being untrue to what we believe is the meaning of our lives and central to our calling, which is the promise and hope of God. Hope comes, not from the emperor, the scribe, the master technocrat, or the high priest, but rather from the God who works in and through historical anguish. To believe in an Advent hope is not to deny the despair or ignore the fear. It is to expect and watch without illusion. As a group of Campbell Scholars summarized it in their consensus paper,

    The hope that is God’s gift to faith is therefore precisely hope—not sight, not inevitability, not finality. It must be grasped by the community of faith and by all who, from whatever sources of longing, imagination, and common grace, glimpse possibilities for what is new. It must become hope in action. l


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    First Sunday in Advent: Isaiah 64:1-9 In contrast to the merry, commercialized, computerized “ho-ho-ho’s” of the cash registers as early as October, Advent begins not with a festive carol of unadulterated joy and hope. Rather, it arrives slowly and ambiguously, from a people not privileged in the ways of the world, but exiled.2 Instead of a carol extending the olive branch of peace, we hear Isaiah crying for the sword of justice. To be a people in exile is, I believe, the apt metaphor to describe Christians in Western culture today who live over and against the contemporary cultural situation in which they (we) find themselves (ourselves). Babylonians had swept down from the north, seized Jerusalem, destroyed the temple and now the once proud people who had understood their nation to be a nation blessed by God were humiliated, defeated, despairing, and fearful. Those who remained were reduced to eating dogs and rats; those who left became slaves to their captors in Babylon. The word is “exile” and it is not pretty. Of all their losses, the loss of their entire world of faith was most devastating. Yet this is precisely where Advent begins. Isaiah knew that the journey from fear to hope began in remembering. “I will recount the gracious deeds of the Lord” (Isaiah 63:7). That memory filled them with hope. But biblical memory is not to be confused with nostalgia, the way we might reminisce over Thanksgivings past during the final weekend of November. Things are never quite as good as we nostalgically remember. One of the early saints of the church once suggested that nostalgia should be numbered among the mortal sins ! There might be some wisdom there, for the recurring homesickness for “the good ol’ days” can mortgage the possibilities of the future to the emotional engagements of the past. Several years ago our family moved from Atlanta to Memphis, and in so doing I found an old box, long forgotten, that had all sorts of high school memorabilia, including old report cards and clippings from the newspaper about our basketball team of which I was a part. I found out that I wasn’t as good a basketball player as I had remembered! The average points per game had crept up during the decades. And I wasn’t as smart as I remembered either! The problem with these exercises of nostalgia is that our memories record the sunny hours and make a hobby of invidious comparisons. As Bill Muehl writes, “No shore ahead is ever as beautiful as the recollection of one left unwillingly behind. No challenges are as stirring, no friends as loyal, no books as engrossing, and no teachers as profound as those enshrined to be young again.”3 Isaiah was not waxing sentimentally for the return of bygone days that never were. Remembering was not a panacea for the people of Israel .Asa matter of fact, it actually opened up the wounds and led them to cry, “O that you would tear open the heavens and come down” (Isaiah 64:1). As the poet continues, we see a people who simply expect God to be God, not unlike Abraham, Moses, Job, and others calling God to accountability. Most importantly (and terribly important to our contemporary exile!), they refused to find scapegoats. They refused to blame “the terrorists” or “the enemy” or “the judges” or “gays” or “liberals”… or “fundamentalists,” for that matter. Rather, they repent. They confess that they are in such a mess that only God can help. They remember that they belong to God and only God. “We are all your people” (Isaiah 64:9b).


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    Such remembering reminds us that our future hope for a God who will come to bring justice and make things right is based on Úxtpast knowledge that God has already come, with mercy and healing.

    Second Sunday of Advent: Isaiah 40:1-11; Mark 1:1-8 Advent continues with a people in exile and a person in the wilderness, but ever so slowly, despair and fear begin to yield to hopeful anticipation. Most preachers (but particularly those of us who attended seminary in the 1960′ s and 1970’s) began ministry with a mantra that almost achieved confessional status: “The job of the preacher is to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.” So it was that I arrived freshly ordained in a little Appalachian community forty-five minutes from nowhere with both prophetic and pastoral mantles in tow, ready to do just that: comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. There was only one problem: As I entered the lives of the people in that community, I couldn’t tell who was comfortable and who was afflicted. To be sure, there were people in that povertystricken region who, on the outside, seemed quite comfortable. Coal mine operators, successful business owners, a few professionals. But it didn’ t take long to find that they had their own afflictions already: children on drugs, broken families, depression, a whole assortment of diseases, or entrapment in an unending cycle of a debilitating consumerism. And for those whom society deemed afflicted? They had many, if not more, of the same afflictions as the so-called comfortable, but some possessed a peace I have rarely found elsewhere. Though they were poor and had been run roughshod over by “the system,” I found that they provided me with comfort. Isaiah’s soothing words of comfort and John the Baptist’s preaching a baptism of repentance stir up that existential pastoral crisis once again. There had been no word from the Lord in nearly two hundred years as the book of Isaiah is arranged, during which the exiles had voiced their fear and grief. “Zion stretches out her hands, but there is no one to comfort her….They heard how I was groaning, with no one to comfort me” (Lamentations 1:17, 21). Just as exile is a contemporary phenomenon, so too is Babylonian ideology, that which “sets the limits of what is possible and what is good, what is to be feared and what is to be trusted.”4Though the preacher should be careful not to make simple comparisons between ideologies of antiquity and modernity, it would be hard to ignore Babylon’s imperialistic militarism in today’s world. In response to the silence of God, the dehumanization of humans, and the groaning of the people, the prophet simply utters a word: “Comfort.” It is a new and startling word. The God who seemed silent and submissive to the Babylonian gods will enable God’s people to go home. All four Gospels use the imagery Isaiah employs here as John the Baptist presents the forthcoming ministry of Jesus as Good News for the exiled and displaced people of the world. Further, it is a word of comfort and affliction. The God who is coming is God who comes “with might” (Isaiah 40:10) and afflicts the arrogance of the Babylonian gods with “good tidings,” or “gospel.” Fear and despair are no longer the dominant weapons to be used by the empire. Yet this God is also gentle and tender with those who have lived in fear and despair and have lost their way. “He will feed his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms, and carry them…” (Isaiah 40:11 ). The people who came to hear John the Baptist quote Isaiah’s vision were no less desperate for a new


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    word from God than those who had lived six hundred years earlier in Babylon. The Pax Romana was every bit as ideological and fear-inducing as Babylonian exile. “Comfort .” “Prepare.” Simple words, but words that point the way to the Word made flesh.

    Third Sunday of Advent: Isaiah 61:1-4, 8-11; John 1:6-8, 19-28 By the time Advent’s third Sunday is upon us there is a growing awareness that something new is indeed about to happen. Beyond fear lies the anticipation that hope and joy will be realities, yet we still must wait and behold the mystery, and that waiting is anything but passive. In W.H. Auden’s “For the Time Being: A Christmas Oratorio,” Herod the King, symbolizing the practical, reasonable nature of many of us in our time, says:

    0 God, put away justice and truth for we cannot understand them and do not want them. Eternity would bore us dreadfully. Leave the heavens and come down…Become our uncle. Look after Baby, amuse grandfather, escort Madam to the Opera, help Willy with his homework, and introduce Muriel to a handsome naval officer. Be interesting and weak like us, and we will love you as we love ourselves.5

    Later, in exasperation, Herod explains:

    1 asked for a God who should be as like me as possible. What use to me is a God whose divinity consists in doing different things that I cannot do or saying clever things that I cannot understand? The God I want and intend to get must be someone I can recognize immediately without having to wait and see what he says or does. There must be nothing in the least extraordinary about him. Produce him at once, please. I’m sick of waiting.6

    Yet wait we must. We must wait because we are not ready for the One who is to come. We think we are. The presents have been bought and wrapped. The choir has the cantata ready. The kids are beside themselves with energy, making parents more than ready. Yet we are not ready, for as Fred Craddock has reminded us: “In order to get to Bethlehem, you have to go through the wilderness. In order to get to Jesus, you have to go through John.”7 We are not ready because we are not aware of our condition, of how deeply we need One who is not a mere projection of ourselves, or our uncle. For it is John the Baptist, an active member of the covenant community, steeped in the prophetic tradition and well aware of how often the people demanded that their own kind be like their powerful neighbors; it is John who startles those gathered before him and startles us as well by pointing not to himself as the light, nor to our projections of who we think we need, but to mystery: “Among you stands one whom you do not know,” an element not found in last Sunday’s Markan account of John the Baptist. A colleague of mine in a lectionary group once reminded us that “Lucifer” means “one who bears the light.” We think of demonic darkness and the light of Christ, yet Lucifer makes claims to light. Is it any coincidence that the age of reason has been called “the enlightenment?” Truth claims abound, from Rush Limbaugh to Fox News to the certainty of fundamentalists, to the Jesus Seminary searching for the historical


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    Jesus, to our own assumptions about who Jesus is, and they all fall short in the presence of mystery. John the Baptist alone seems to know how alluring it is to claim the light for oneself. He tells know-it-alls that they know nothing at all, but he includes himself in that judgment. He bears witness to one “who comes after me, the thong of whose sandal I am not worthy to untie” (John 1:27). Once again we are afflicted and disturbed by words of the prophet. We do not know the One who stands among us. But the comforting words that cast fear aside are that he is among us. He is to come, and we shall know him. The Gospel becomes clearer. As Isaiah envisioned, the city will be restored, not by engineers, architects and contractors, but by the brokenhearted, captives, prisoners, and mourners. We shall know the One who comes in the name of the Lord as we work side by side with those who will do the rebuilding—the poor and the dispossessed. Isaiah and John remind us that hope that is grounded in the power and mystery of the One who is to come is far different from the hope that we have grounded in ourselves and our claims to light and truth. As the contemporary prophet Vaclav Havel of the Czech Republic has written, “Humanity will have to go through many more Chernobyls and Rwandas before it understands how unbelievably shortsighted a human being can be who has forgotten that he [or she] is not God.”8 This third Sunday of Advent offers us an active hope, marked by humility, discernment, and mystery. We continue to wait and hope, looking for the One standing among us, that we might know him. Until then, we must beware of churches that claim to be enlightened, preachers who claim to have a corner on truth, governments that ignore the poor, and pundits who claim to know the answers. For the Jesus whom we await challenges them all.

    Fourth Sunday in Advent: Luke 1:26-38 Abraham Heschel once suggested that humans do not live by needs alone, but by hopes, which we can barely articulate. “A person is what he [or she] hopes for,” And though we try to manufacture hopes with our busyness and cheerful yet unrealistic optimism, we find virtually all of our home-grown attempts to instill hope simply masquerade as hope, but do not fill the deep and profound need we so desperately await. Today’s Gospel lesson seems far removed from a people in exile or a desert prophet. In contrast to the previous Sundays, the setting seems downright ordinary. Here is a young woman, perhaps as young as twelve, with the same basic hopes and expectations of any ordinary Jewish girl of that day: to marry, bear children, care for a household, work hard, and grow old. There seems to be only one constant that connects this text with the previous texts we have examined. Once again, fear is present. “Do not be afraid, Mary” (Luke 1:30), the angel says. It is an ordinary fear that anyone might have when visited by angels, the same kind of fear that seems to permeate the birth narratives. The angel has spoken the same words to Zechariah (1:13), to Joseph (Matthew 1:18), and later to the shepherds (Luke 1:10). Fear is as much a part of our condition as the need for hope. Frederick Buechner suggests that Mary is not the only one in this scene to be trembling:

    She struck the angel Gabriel as hardly old enough to have a child at all,


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    let alone this child, but he’ d been entrusted with the message to give her, and he gave it.. .As he said it, he only hoped she wouldn’ t notice that beneath the great, golden wings he himself was trembling with fear to think that the whole future of creation hung now on the answer of a girl.9

    But Mary’s fear seems different from our fears, which often lock the doors of our hearts to wonder. It is a holy fear that somehow keeps the heart open to mystery and hope, demonstrating that fear and faith can co-exist in the same human heart. Gabriel had done his best to explain the unexplainable. “The Holy Spirit will come upon you” (Luke 1:35). The Holy Spirit gets us out of a lot of jams! Gabriel mentions Mary’s cousin Elizabeth, as though conceiving in old age is equivalent to conceiving as a virgin, and then simply rests his case with the statement that most people of faith would have a hard time refuting: “Nothing will be impossible with God” (Luke 1:37). We don’t know how long Gabriel had to wait for her answer. Luke implies that the answer came quickly, but Mary was always pondering things in her heart, and I like to think that even Gabriel had to wait in Advent. But after waiting, Mary spoke with a simplicity and depth few, if any, preachers can attain. “Here I am, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your Word” (Luke 1:38). Kathleen Norris contrasts Mary’s response with Zechariah’s unbelief, which led to silence.

    She does not lose her voice but finds it….she asserts herself before God, saying, “Here am I.”…Mary proceeds—as we must do in life—making her commitment without knowing much about what it will entail or where it will lead. I treasure the story because it forces me to ask: “When the mystery of God’s love breaks through into my consciousness, do I run from it? Do I ask of it what I cannot answer? Shrugging, do I retreat into facile cliches, the popular false wisdom of what “we all know”? Or am I virgin enough to respond from my deepest, truest self, and say something new, a “yes” that will change me forever? 10

    William Sloane Coffin has throughout his ministry reminded us that the opposite of love is not hate, but fear. “Perfect love casts out fear” (I John 4:18). To live an Advent hope is not to live in denial that the fears are not real. There is plenty to fear, and the principalities and powers thrive on exploiting those fears. Nor is it to live in passive resignation without claiming responsibility for that hope. Perhaps as we approach the manger and hold perfect love, love divine, in our arms, our fear might be a holy fear, full of wonder, mystery, and surprise. For we see that nothing is impossible with God, not even a young woman giving birth in which the outpouring of divine love and a distilling of human love is found in a child. The waiting is almost over, but through our waiting we have found meaning, fashioned from our hope in the One who has indeed come. He lives within us, as he lived within an ordinary girl in an ordinary town years ago. And we find that our despair and fear are no matches for a God for whom nothing will be impossible. As I close, our church, along with countless others, is helping to re-settle evacuees from New Orleans following the devastation of Katrina. We saw after 9/11 how fear produced anxiety and defensiveness, which led to increasing violence and tribalism. Katrina has exposed something about our society that we have tried hard to deny: who


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    suffers the most, especially in wartime. The very week the hurricane hit, the U.S. Census poverty report came out, showing that poverty had risen for the fourth straight year with 37 million Americans below the poverty line. They were among the ones stuck in New Orleans. There is plenty to fear, particularly for those who are poor and black. But there is still the promise of God. Perhaps the word we need to hear above all on this day is what the angel said to Mary, words that were repeated years later at an empty tomb: “Do not be afraid.”

    Notes 1. Walter Brueggcman, ed., Hope for the World (Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox Press, 2001), 17. 2. Scholars are divided as to whether or not this text was actually written during the exile or following the exile. Nonetheless, it is about the devastating experience of being exiled from home. For a post-exilic interpretation, see Jon L. Berguist, Judaism in Persia ‘s Sliadow: A Social and Historical Approach (Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress Press, 1995). 3. William Muehl, All the Damned Angels (Philadelphia, Pa.: Pilgrim Press, 1972), 100-101. 4. Walter Brueggeman, Isaiah 40-66 (Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox Press, 1998), 14. 5. W. H. Auden, “For the Time Being: A Christmas Oratorio,” Collected Longer Poems (New York: Random House, 1969), 187. 6. Ibid, 188. 7. I first heard Dr. Craddock make this claim in a workshop in the 1980’s. I am sure it is in one of his sermons somewhere, but I cannot find the source. 8. Cited by James M. Wall in ‘True Confessions,” Christian Century (November 20-27, 1996), 1131. 9. Frederick Buechner, Peculiar Treasures: A Biblical Who ‘s Who (San Francisco, Calif. : Harper & Row, 1979), 39. 10. Kathleen Norris, Amazing Grace: A Vocabulary of Faith (New York: Riverhead Books 1998), 7677 .