A Kingdom Not of This World: A Good Earth Day Reflection

John 18:1 - 19:42

Of all my childhood memories I hold a special place in my heart for the day when I came to realize that I was part of something much greater than myself. Nineteen seventy was a turbulent year, and it was difficult to find a place where my nine-year-old mind was not assailed by some sign of the brokenness and disruption that marked that era. I remember the images that were broadcast each night on the six o’clock news of fire fights in some distant land, and the confusion I felt upon hearing that US troops were engaging “gorillas” in these far-off jungles. I recall my fear as anti-war protests broke out on college campuses throughout my home state of Ohio, and my younger sister’s precocious question, the one that confounds me to this day: “How can people fight for peace?” In many ways, 1970 was the worst of times.

But it was the best of times. And April 22 of that year would have a transforming effect on my life. I don’t know that I had seen the image before, but when my third-grade teacher held before us that now-iconic photograph that astronauts on the Apollo 8 mission had taken from outer space, I was transfixed. I did what most children do in situations like these: I tried to find my neighborhood, and then my state. Eventually I had to settle on my country. What I saw that day was big; bigger than me and all of us combined. Even now I cannot dissociate this image from the one scripture passage that so many of us seem to know yet so few of us seem to affirm: “For God so loved the world….” (John 3:16).

Earth Day 1970 was when I first realized, or at least I intuited in my own childlike way, that what gives my body life – the earth and all its good gifts – and what lies at the core of my soul – the breath of God – cannot be so easily separated. Even then I somehow knew that if the fighting and destruction that had been such a prominent part of my lived experience were ever going to cease it would require more than mere technical solutions to the problems we faced. It would require a conversion, a new way of locating ourselves on that photograph. We would need to become citizens of a different kind of political order.

My only other memory of that momentous celebration is this: I walked home barefoot that day and thought about planting a garden.

It is no coincidence, I think, that the events that we commemorate in our observance of the Triduum – from Good Friday to Easter Sunday – begin and end in a garden, for it is here that Christ, the new Adam, embarks on the harrowing journey that ultimately enables us to reclaim our true identities as tillers and keepers of creation. Here we are offered a new insight into what kingdom is truly ours. The narrative that will hold our attention over the next three days recapitulates in a symbolic way the events of the Hebrew Bible up until the coming of Christ. The new Adam is taken forcefully from his prayerful solitude and brought before the powers that be, the “kingdom of this world” whose hallmarks are the same violence, humiliation, and death that so frightened me as a child. This is clearly not the realm of the “I am,” the self-affirmation spoken by Jesus throughout the Gospel of John. Rather, it is the domain of the denial of God and the denial of our true humanity. The contrast with the words of Christ could not be simpler, and we hear it three times on Peter’s lips: “I am not.” But what makes this narrative different from the Hebrew story that precedes it is that this time Adam is not left to wander further and further east of Eden in a land far from his home. This time Adam returns to the Garden.

And in this we find hope for our own return, not so that we can practice the kind of violent dominion and darkness so typical of the “kingdom of this world,” but so that we might “serve and preserve” (Gen. 2:15) the earth that gives us life and from which we came. It was not in vain that Paul admonished the Romans to think about their reconciliation to God through Christ in a radically new way:

For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God; for the creation was subjected in futility, not of its own will but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to decay and will obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God. We know that the whole creation has been groaning in labor pains until now; and not only creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies (Romans 8:19-23).

John says it more simply: God so loved the world – that is, the entire cosmos, the earth and all its bounty, including God’s human creatures – that God gave his only son to restore us all to our true vocation as “servers and preservers” of our home. Ours is a kingdom not of this fallen world but of the original creation.

We read later in the Gospel of John that on the day of his resurrection Jesus is mistaken as a gardener by one of the women who knew him best, Mary Magdalene. It is easy for us to write this scene off as a telling indication of Mary’s confusion and grief, but we should not be so quick to discount the author’s theological intent in retaining this apparently minor detail in the narrative. It was perhaps inevitable that Mary would encounter the risen Christ as a gardener, because that is in fact what he was: the new Adam, in a new creation, and the full embodiment of all that we as God's people are now called to be.

Having said this, we need to pause and reflect on how faithfully we have followed through with this role. Our pericope for Good Friday presents us with the image of two kingdoms. The first is the realm of authentic being, the peaceful abode of the Garden where the weapons that divide us are sheathed and we rest in faithful communion with Jesus. It is here that we can truly say, along with Christ, “I am.” The second is the domain of denial where we perpetually pursue our self-serving ends only to discover that we are sinking deeper and deeper into oblivion. In our despair, in our failure to affirm our relationship with God, with others, and with the earth, we cannot help but profess, along with Peter, “I am not.”

Between these two lies the excruciating death of the Word made flesh at the hands of those who would exercise a corrupt earthly dominion. On this Good Friday, on this Earth Day, we must ask ourselves, and with some urgency, “as the body of Christ, which side are we on?” Will we continue blithely to reconcile the values of our consumerist culture with our original vocation as faithful stewards of creation? In so doing, I say, Christ is mocked and crucified again.

If my lunar calculations are correct we will not see Good Friday coincide with Earth Day for another eighteen years. By then, God willing, I will have traveled the road of a lifetime from my third-grade classroom at Lincoln Elementary to my as yet unknown identity as an older man. I do wonder where I will be all those years hence, but more than this I wonder where the church will be. Perhaps we will look back on 2011 as a time when we began to realize that these two communal observances – one solemn and the other hopeful – need not be so easily segregated, for in the sacrifice of Christ lies the hope of the world that God so loved. But I am not optimistic. Given the rapaciousness with which our American way of life continues to gobble up the precious gifts of the earth, it seems that creation, still subjected in futility, is destined perpetually to groan in travail as it awaits the revealing of God’s children and the coming of a kingdom not of this world.

Earthly Vision

2 Corinthians 12:2-10

Every year about this time I'm fascinated by a transition in my town that may appear to some as wholly unremarkable. Around the first of May the grocery and hardware stores in Hastings erect small greenhouses and start selling the perennial and annual plants that will adorn our yards throughout the summer. This time of year it's a mad scramble because our window for planting is so short, given that we have only two seasons in Nebraska, winter and summer. By mid-June the prices on all the petunias and leftover tomatoes are slashed, and by the end of the month these very plants, now dry and forsaken, are packed up and moved away. And soon, within a matter of days, there's a new game in town: fireworks. The earlier obsession with emerging life now gives way to an infatuation with the very things that take it away.

As you can probably guess, I am not a big fan of the Fourth of July, not because I am unpatriotic – a claim that could probably be leveled against me with some fairness – but because I have never enjoyed as entertainment what in most parts of the world is a source of sheer terror and dread: exploding bombs in the sky, and their scaled-down versions in the streets and back alleys of our towns. Even as I write, the Black Cats are popping and bottle rockets are screeching, disrupting the quiet of a mild summer evening.

Yes, you can call me an old grump, but I think my frustration is warranted. I do not doubt that the teen-aged boys on my block could spew forth some talk-radio litany about freedom and independence if asked what all the commotion is about, but the truth of the matter is that they couldn't care less. They are simply fascinated, in their testosterone-driven way, with these things that go boom.

As I read our epistle lesson for this week, I cannot help but think that Paul experienced a similar frustration with the people of Corinth, those for whom he had recently been a shepherd on the narrow path of the Christian faith. Though he had tried his best in his previous letter to impress upon these believers the virtues of humility and servanthood, time and again he was beset by the same old problem: their fascination, borne of an incomplete break with the mystery religions of their past, with so many things that go boom. One of Paul's objectives in writing this second missive is to try to direct the Corinthians' attention away from so much that glitters and beguiles, and to encourage them to think faithfully, in the manner of Christ.

We saw earlier in this epistle that Paul chooses to shy away from an authoritarian approach in his communication, and it is certain that this is less a rhetorical strategy than an attempt to embody his own sound theology. Paul was an apostle of the divine Son who emptied himself and took on the form of a slave (Phil. 2:8). It would therefore be entirely out of character for him to lord his knowledge over this fragile flock, compelling them to listen and to obey his words. Nevertheless, this approach is precisely what seems to have persuaded the Corinthian church, in Paul's absence, to heed unfamiliar voices and reconsider his legitimacy as a true apostle of the Lord.

The problem lies primarily with the delegation that had been sent from Jerusalem to take over the leadership of this fledgling congregation and to discredit the one whose labor in the Spirit was responsible for their existence. To bolster their authority, these men brought with them a signed and sealed letter from the mother church validating their legitimacy as true apostles who had known Jesus "according to the flesh." But the Corinthians, it appears, were not so easily swayed by an elaborate missive from parts unknown – they wanted proof, and in a form that would impress them most. What about spiritual gifts? Have you had visions? Though Paul had tried from the start to mitigate this infatuation with the fantastic, the men and women of this congregation seem to have been incapable of rising above their perennial weakness. Can you give us something that goes boom?

So in writing this second letter, the Apostle is caught on the horns of a dilemma: how to model the humility of Christ while at the same time "boasting" of his own legitimacy as a visionary, and thus re-establish his authenticity in the hearts and minds of this congregation. His approach is subdued right from the start as he utilizes a common rabbinical device, speaking of himself in the third person. The Gnostic leanings of the Corinthians are perhaps reflected in the great care he takes in avoiding any specifics about his mystical experience: it is not clear whether he was taken up to "the third heaven" in his body or out of it, the latter being the only legitimate means of rapture among most Gnostics. What matters most, however, is that the Corinthians come to realize that such extraordinary ecstasies cannot – must not – be regarded as ends in themselves, for to do so would mean eclipsing the true, though paradoxical, power of Christ.

Again, I cannot help but think that Paul has the Christological hymn of Philippians 2 in mind as he writes, but in this instance he is using it as an ethical model for himself. Just as Christ became weak, emptied himself of the "third heaven" that is equality with God, so must Paul – or anyone else so inclined – also resist the temptation to rest securely in the elation of his vision. Unlike those of the Jerusalem delegation who cajole the Corinthians with accounts of their mystical experiences, Paul can boast only in his weakness – that is, only in Christ, the slave, in whose life, death, and resurrection he has found his truest vocation. Unless one's rapture in the third heaven can become incarnate, can become enfleshed, even amidst the thorns, then it is not worthy of the Son of God.

This spiritual weakness, Paul wants to say, is the most impressive boom of all.

I do not want to give the impression that Hastings, Nebraska, is brimming with empty-headed revelers who are content only to chase after the next cheap thrill. On the contrary, I have found here some of the finest examples of Christ-like weakness and humility that I have seen anywhere in the country. I am thinking especially of my experience just this past weekend at our annual Flatwater Folk Festival, an event that has come to represent for me the best that my town has to offer.

Anyone familiar with summer music festivals knows that their perceived success depends upon a stellar lineup of musicians, all polished and practiced in presenting a flawless performance to those who have paid their hard-earned dollars to come and hear them. That is how most of these events tend to go. I am happy to say, however, that I saw very little of this last weekend. Indeed, what made my experience so positive was the consistency with which our local performers – all very accomplished in their own right – insisted on sharing the stage with their struggling students, those who were just one or two years into learning the guitar or banjo. The local heroes, in other words, considered it a part of their responsibility as mentors to embody, to make incarnate, their sustainable vision of an inclusive community.

It occurred to me as I watched and listened just how uncommon this really was, especially among musicians who tend not to enjoy sharing the limelight with anyone, students or otherwise. But there it was, what I considered to be a kind of earthly vision, an example of human beings setting aside their own selfish inclinations toward shining alone to look out after the needs of others. It was, in other words, an instance of vulnerability made manifest for the world to see, and hear, thorns and all.

From a worldly perspective, the music was very good, but short of spectacular. There were some who sang just a little off-key, and others who knit their brow to make sure the tune came off just as they practiced it. The performers would not have received rave reviews in any of the big-city newspapers. But what we all experienced that afternoon transcended mere entertainment, for we were blessed to listen to these choirs of dusty angels relating their own versions of Paul's third heaven, and all from a make-shift stage poised between two old barns amid the cornfields of Nebraska. We heard the sound of community then and beheld in its sublime imperfection an earthly vision of a little-known but all-too-accessible spiritual truth: that in weakness – in vulnerability, selflessness, in sharing one's passion freely with another – lies the key to discerning the inscrutable power of God.

And that makes a big enough boom for me.



Of Related Interest

1. For more information on the annual Flatwater Folk Festival visit the Prairie Loft Center website.

2. "Recycled art" (photo 2) is the work of local artist Sally Buss.

3. Festival photos courtesy of local artist/artisan and trusted friend, Jack Sandeen.

Too Much and Too Little

2 Corinthians 8:7-15

I have mentioned elsewhere in these pages that I have never been overly enthusiastic about the Apostle Paul. Perhaps I have latent Judaizing tendencies, like so many of Paul's opponents in the early church, or perhaps it is because I have such a difficult time negotiating some of his convoluted sentences. I have come to suspect, however, that I have not spent enough time trying to understand the man in his highly complex and dynamic socio-historical context. In fact, when I look at the lectionary passage for this week, I cannot help but feel empathy for him, not to mention an enormous respect for his fortitude.

Consider the situation. A year or so has transpired since he last visited Corinth and in that time much has happened in the congregation to give him pause for great concern. Shortly after his departure a delegation of apostles – true apostles, to hear them tell it – arrived from Jerusalem and immediately attended to the task of putting out all the theological fires that had been set by the upstart convert from Tarsus. The congregation had already suffered considerably from various divisions and strife. Recall the controversies of I Corinthians: some in the church claimed loyalty to the golden-tongued Apollos while others maintained their fealty to Paul; rich and poor celebrated separate communal meals; tongue-speakers felt compelled to lord their spiritual gift over those differently inclined. And the resurrection – some were denying it. With Paul unable to defend himself, the delegation from the Holy City – from the very congregation of "poor saints" for whom the Apostle had worked so earnestly in taking up a collection (I Cor. 16:1-4) – had little trouble stirring the waters of an already turbulent, and no doubt confused, community of believers. They did not accept Paul's apostolic status, for he never knew Jesus "according to the flesh."

But despite the very real possibility that his letter would be poorly received, Paul is able somehow to set aside his human tendency to feel hurt, to feel betrayed, to feel abandoned, and trudge forward, keeping the eyes of his heart ever on Christ. While his Jerusalem opponents appear to have acted in an aggressive and authoritarian manner, Paul chooses instead the path of gentle persuasion, of encouragement:

I do not say this as a command…. For you know the generous act of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though he was rich, yet for your sakes he became poor, so that by his poverty you might become rich. And in this matter I am giving my advice: it is appropriate for you who began last year not only to do something but even to desire doing something – now finish doing it, so that your eagerness may be matched by completing it according to your means (8:8-12).

And this is only an introduction to what he most fervently desires, the task he set before this congregation prior to his departure over a year ago, which now seems all but inconceivable to those of lesser spiritual dispositions: raising funds for the poor saints of Jerusalem, for the church that had apparently spawned the troublesome delegation.

I will admit that I am one of a lesser spiritual disposition. If I were in Paul's situation I would have shaken the Corinthian dust from my feet even before writing my first letter. I'm a little ashamed to admit it, but I just don't have that much patience with people, let alone a congregation. Had I been in Paul's sandals, I would have moved on to bigger and better things.

But this overlooks the point doesn't it? First of all, there are no bigger and better things than modeling the life, death, and resurrection of Christ, and what better means of doing so than continuing the work of relief for the poor, even despite their questionable leadership? Second, this task is doomed to failure apart from the spiritual poverty that must precede it – that is, apart from emptying oneself of all envy and greed, of all self-righteousness and entitlement, so that the Spirit finds no encumbrances in her work as Comforter, as Sustainer. Had it been Paul alone coming to terms with the wayward souls of Corinth, he would have simply thrown up his hands and been done with it all. This would be the all-too-human response. But it was the Apostle who set pen to paper in this second letter, and that makes all the difference.

Paul's perseverance and Christ-mindedness are all the more instructive for us as we continue to feel our way through a broken economy and address the many difficulties it presents for us. I think the natural tendency in these times is to turn inward and simply attend to our basic needs and not waste too much energy on what lies beyond our limited frame of reference. We prefer to deal with the problems of Corinth and turn a blind eye to the poor saints of Jerusalem living a world away. But we who have too much refuse to empty ourselves to the Spirit when we choose to ignore the cries of those reeling from the social obscenity of having too little.

Just this week the UN's Food and Agriculture Organization revised its estimate of the number of people worldwide who are living in "food insecurity," a nicely sanitized way of saying "dying of starvation." In such a global context, where one in every six bearers of the image of God is hungry, can we truly afford not to follow Paul's example, Christ's example, of choosing spiritual, and at least some form of material poverty so that we – and perhaps most important, others around the world – might become rich?

The path that lies ahead for the church is perhaps more difficult than it has ever been given what many perceive to be its increasing irrelevance in the affairs of the world. In the past we have been faithful and somewhat successful at gathering our resources and funding relief efforts in every corner of the globe. But the climate has changed, and it appears that what has worked so well – by which I mean, so conveniently – in the past will need now to be severely amended, and this in keeping with the example of Christ. Our hope for the future lies not so much in what we are able to give, but in what we are willing to give up; not in what we are able to do, but in our willingness to do without.

From the perspective of one living in the U.S., it is appallingly evident that the excesses of my Corinth have been achieved at the great expense of so many poor saints of Jerusalem. The time has come for me, and perhaps many of us, to reconsider the vital wisdom of both spiritual and material poverty, or at least a life of greater simplicity. Every time I ask what I can give I will also take a careful inventory and consider what exactly I might also give up. The old Shaker hymn still has much to commend: "'tis a joy to be simple."

In concluding this section of his letter, Paul wisely draws on a tradition that both he and the Jerusalem delegation can uphold as authoritative, and it is one that still informs the church today, though in some places more than others. What better metaphor for the human condition than the experience of a people, a community, wandering in the desert, altogether dependent on the unwarranted grace of a liberating God who provides manna from heaven? But this manna is a gift with limitations, offered not that some may gorge themselves and become fat while others go completely without – a reality that many of us know all too well -- but so that a sense of equality (Paul's very word, isoteis) may abound and thus reflect the singular essence of the Kingdom of God: that "those who have much do not have too much, and those who have little do not have too little."


And These Questions Remain

1. If "too little" can be described as an amount insufficient for sustaining the quality of human life -- what roughly 1.02 billion people worldwide experience each day -- then by what criteria do we determine what is "too much"? Will Americans ever deal honestly with this important question?

2. For what cause or project would I be willing to take up a collection with a zeal and perseverance equal to that of Paul?

Of Related Interest

1. See the World Food Programme's A Billion for a Billion Campaign, appealing to the world's 1.6 billion web users to address the needs of the world's 1.02 billion hungry.

Strange Faith

This essay originally appeared in the journal Lumunos (Spring 2009).

Job 38:1-11

A little over seven years ago I made the move from Knoxville, Tennessee, nestled in the gentle arms of the Cumberland Mountains, to Hastings, Nebraska, a small town just holding its own against the harsh extremes of the Great Plains. At first the change was almost too much to bear. My personal narrative just didn't match up with any of the human stories that presented themselves in this place. This is Oregon Trail country, and everywhere along State Highway 6, a road I traveled daily, the landscape offered grim reminders of failure and hardship, of dreams lost along the way toward some brighter future. The graves of newborns, of wives lost to disease, of fathers killed by marauders, were frequent indicators that this was not a forgiving land. I felt lost on the prairie.

But my perspective began to change around March of that first year. I had made friends and was becoming involved in the community, but I still felt like an outsider. However, one morning I found a story I could claim as my own as I walked outside my kitchen door and heard the million-year-old throaty call of the Sand Hill Cranes somewhere in the clouds above me. Over the next several weeks I was introduced to their magnificent migration, a rite of passage that has endured for untold millennia, as thousands of these creatures – and I mean thousands – alighted in the fields along a fifty-mile stretch of the Platte River. I was completely mesmerized and swept up in what I can only describe as a kind of strange faith. It is ironic that the lives and deaths of intrepid westward pioneers had seemed so distant to me, and yet in the enactment of this pre-historic narrative I experienced a kind of primal hope in the recesses of my soul. It was then that I began to make this landscape my home. I began to love it.

I can imagine that my story is not all that different from those who have found themselves in a foreign environment surrounded by menacing uncertainty. We seek out the familiar wherever we can find it, and sometimes we extend our reach beyond our human community. Eventually we find some kind of foothold, and with this a point to begin the faith-work of transforming foreboding space into welcoming place.

I think of the experience that a handful of Israelites must have had in the sixth century BCE as they made their way from their promised land to a makeshift refugee colony on the banks of the Chebar River. Babylon offered nothing of the typical comforts of their city on a hill and they did what was necessary not to assimilate into what they considered to be a wayward culture. While some of the priests busied themselves with new expositions of the law as a hedge against God's further judgment, others found a kind of strange faith and comfort in the mystery of it all, in the profound precariousness of their situation. Uncertainty, they argued in their Wisdom Literature, is precisely what should be expected from a God of surprises, a God who confronts us precisely when we think we've got a good handle on the divine.

While the people of that alien land put their trust in chariots and horses, many Jews felt compelled by their emerging theology to bank on the absurd. They placed their hope in a Creator who is sometimes encountered only in the incomprehensible, in the whirlwind. As Job discovered, the call of this God can at times be less a comfort than a challenge:

Who is this that darkens counsel
by words without knowledge?
…Where were you when I laid the
foundation of the earth?
Tell me if you have understanding. (Job 38:2,4)

No one has to tell Nebraskans about whirlwinds. Every spring, shortly after the cranes tire of the Platte and make their way to Canada, the warm gulf air starts getting pushy with the arctic currents descending from the north, resulting in some of the fiercest storms on the planet. (Just last night, in fact -- June 14 -- I witnessed one of our periodic tornadoes skipping through an open cornfield just north of Roseland.) It is then, I find, that the human stories of perseverance and grit are revealed, usually in response to some greenhorn like me lamenting the ferocity of the winds or the force of the hail. "You think that was a storm?" This is how the litany begins, soon to be topped off by, "You should have been here during the Depression!"

In the right company this will be the entrée into a well-rehearsed local history that has been decades in the telling, even by those who did not experience the events themselves. It is true that the One who laid the foundation of the universe did not look kindly on the Great Plains during the 1930s, though the problems were exacerbated by ambitious farmers whose capitalist theology prevented them from seeking out the wisdom of their place. In the absence of life-giving rain, the tilled earth was no match for the harsh prairie winds, and soon ominous dust storms – some as high as a thousand feet – began rolling across the landscape with tragic regularity. Nothing could stay put long enough to set down roots and grow.

Except for the people, many of whom were just a generation or two removed from the tombstones on Highway 6. When I hear about the hardships these folks suffered during the Dust Bowl, it's difficult for me to imagine why anyone wanted to weather the storms. The truth of the matter is that most people had little choice. But when options are limited, a strange faith takes over, and if grace is sufficient, hope and love soon follow.

I have been impressed with the signs of this faith during my visits to some of the small towns that are still trying to make a go of it on the prairie. Many feature an old, red-brick school house rising up out of the landscape like some sacred civic monument, and I'm always surprised to see the dates of dedication that are carved there in stone. 1934. 1936. 1939. This is the hope and love that grow out of strange faith. Precisely at the point when the roiling tides of black dust were threatening the livelihoods of farm families in Glenvil, or Holstein, or any number of the now-forgotten communities on the plains, the people of these villages were pooling their meager resources and sowing in tears what they fully expected to reap in joy.

Now we are facing different storms and I wonder if our sense of uncertainty is a reflection of where we have too long placed our confidence. The health and wealth gospel will surely cease to be good news when all the stuff is gone. Though the masters of the universe have offered so many "words without knowledge," the Creator of the cosmos has laid the firmest foundation for our lives. Affirming this, my strange faith assures me that even as the thin narratives of the pretenders unravel at the seams, I can still expect to see the Sand Hill Cranes returning in March to their beloved Platte. Parents will continue to sow in tears for the sake of their children, and yes, the April winds will wreak their perennial havoc on the Nebraska landscape. But through it all, I do not doubt that the inhabitants of this place will abide by an equally strange hope, that with the ears of their hearts they might yet discern the still small voice of grace speaking from the midst of the whirlwind.

For me the evidence that this voice has been heard for millennia lies in so many facets of my community, and I feel especially called now to take up the challenge of hearing it in all its sonorous tones. There is so much chatter about dreams destroyed and money irretrievably lost that I can be easily drawn into the shared dysfunction of it all. I choose to focus instead on the remarkable wealth I experience in the landscape around me, and on the spirit of God who speaks to me there. It is a matter of strange faith.

This spring I once again tilled the earth and planted my seeds in the hope and love familiar to every gardener. I sowed in joy despite the world's apparent fixation with tears, and I continue to seek God's grace in those places long ignored by many who are now reaping their own whirlwinds.

The Cause of Their Falling

I Corinthians 8:1-13

I will admit something that no good Protestant – let alone a Presbyterian – should have any business revealing: sometimes I just don’t get what the apostle Paul is trying to say, whether this is in his theologically rich letter to the Romans, or in his more practically focused epistles to the Corinthians. I know I could make the task much easier if I simply allowed his words to be filtered through the screen of Calvinist or Lutheran doctrine that I have learned over the years, but I have never trusted short-cuts. Too often I have taken the easy road by letting the sixteenth-century reformers tell me what Paul is up to and have not grappled critically with the issues in context.

Let's face it: when it comes to a straight reading of the text – something the literalists are always trying to impress upon us – the guy just flat out contradicts himself.

…we know that "no idol in the world really exists," and that "there is no God but one." Indeed, even though there may be so-called gods in heaven or on earth – as in fact there are many gods and many lords – yet for us there is one God the Father… (I Cor. 8:4b-6a).

Attempting to read this at face value, without drawing on my theological assumptions, I am left only to ask, "So which one is it? There is no God but one, or there are many gods and lords?"

I have to sympathize with Paul and what he was trying to do in the midst of an incredibly diverse city like Corinth. The problem at hand – eating meat sacrificed to idols – is complex indeed, and it does not even involve the one group who seemed constantly to be at Paul's throat. Jews would have had no problem deciding whether they should sit down at table with pagans who were sharing a sacrificial meal. The act of doing so would implicate them in the sins of both idolatry and the consumption of food that had not been slaughtered according to the dictates of the Torah. So the dilemma that Paul addresses is peculiarly Gentile in origin.

Anyone who has ever sat on a church committee will have a pretty good idea of how the lines were being drawn with respect to this issue. On the one hand were those whose special knowledge – the Gnostic overtones here should be evident – gave them the advantage of insight that was clearly lost on some of the less spiritually advanced members of the community. They could reason sufficiently along the lines that Paul had already established that if all things are permitted – that is, if Christians are not ultimately saved by the letter of the Jewish law – then it only stands to reason that food sacrificed to idols, graven images of gods who do not actually exist, is in no way tainted by the sin of idolatry.

On the other hand, there were those who could probably affirm with their lips what those in the know were claiming, that pagan deities were not real. Yet in their hearts they were still not entirely convinced. And who could blame them? They were living in a city whose very existence seemed to depend upon the favor of the gods to whom so many of their friends and neighbors were dedicated. One could not help but acknowledge the power that lay in the convictions of these pagan faithful. Wouldn't the very act of accepting an invitation to a sacrificial meal be tantamount to affirming the religious beliefs of the host, regardless of whether his or her gods actually existed? And would this not amount to an affront to the sanctity of the one God and one Lord?

There were some in Corinth – those with a weaker conscience, as Paul admits – that could see the wisdom in the Jewish notion of being a priestly nation, a people set apart. It is for their sake, Paul finally concludes, that he will abstain from sacrificial meals, lest by his actions the "weak believers" be destroyed. "[I]f food is a cause of their falling, I will never eat meat, so that I may not cause one of them to fall" (8:13). Though spiritual knowledge may suggest one approach, Christian love demands another.

Yet if we read further in this epistle we soon discover that Paul has other reasons for his prohibition, and his comments help clarify the apparent contradiction referred to earlier. His admonition also allows us to get a handle on how this seemingly context-specific focus on Christian attitudes toward pagan rituals is still relevant to us today.

In chapter 10, Paul gets to the real meat of the matter, if you'll pardon the expression:

What do I imply then? That food sacrificed to idols is anything, or that an idol is anything? No, I imply that what pagans sacrifice, they sacrifice to demons and not to God. I do not want you to be partners with demons. You cannot drink the cup of the Lord and the cup of demons. You cannot partake of the table of the Lord and the table of demons (I Cor. 10:19-21).

Now I will admit that bringing demons into the picture seems all the more to call into question the relevance of this first-century practice to our present-day lives. Not only are we living in a world in which animals are no longer slaughtered on altars, we are all pretty much on board with the idea that demons are merely the phantoms of pre-modern, superstitious societies. Principalities and powers, as Paul refers to them elsewhere, make for good apocalyptic best-sellers, but when it comes to our everyday experiences they should surely be left behind.

Walter Wink sees it differently, and I am inclined to agree with his perspective. In his book, The Powers that Be, he explains that we do ourselves a disservice if we cannot imagine how "demons" are still with us in the form of corporate entities whose disruptive influence in the world cannot be denied (see pp. 25-30, passim). They establish in every corner of the globe their attractive altars on which many of us are only too eager to sacrifice, justifying our actions at times with the assurance that all things are lawful. Some in the church, however – perhaps because of a "weaker conscience" – are not so sure, and we are left to wonder if this blithe acceptance of contemporary pagan rituals is indeed beneficial.

Take the issue of meat, for example. "All of us possess knowledge," as Paul might say, that God gave humans dominion over the earth, and after the flood God provided the beasts of the field as food for human sustenance. We should therefore feel no compunction as Christians to abstain from this divine gift, and anyone who says otherwise has not read the Good Book.

Meat is a ubiquitous staple of the American diet, and with each man, woman, and child consuming an average of eight ounces a day, it is fair to say that it has become for us a kind of civic sacrament. The mark of hospitality in homes all over the country – and certainly on Super Bowl Sunday – is to serve invited guests only the finest beef or pork, and lots of it. Yet in our increasingly global context it is both compelling and responsible to ask the very questions posed by those of weaker conscience in the Corinthian church: "On what altar has this sumptuous meal been sacrificed? What are the moral implications of my partaking of it? With what demons will I enter into communion if I do so?"

In a recent New York Times article, "Rethinking the Meat Guzzler," journalist Mark Bittman enumerates the deleterious effects that a meat-centered diet continues to have not only on our environment but also on the approximately one billion people who suffer daily from malnutrition and starvation. According to some estimates, the world agricultural output is now sufficient to provide every person on the planet with a diet of 3500 calories per day, yet the lion's share of the grain is being distributed to ethanol processing plants and confined animal feeding operations (CAFOs). This only serves the needs of the wealthy few. Add to this the deplorable health conditions associated with "growing" meat animals – feedlots have now been implicated in many strains of antibiotic-resistant bacteria – and the invisible demons that accompany our seemingly innocuous happy meals are brought clearly into focus.

Clearly – though in a manner quite different from what is implied in Paul's letter to the Corinthians – food in our day has caused many whose lives are removed from our day-to-day existence to fall. Their bodies have been broken as well as their spirits. In response to this, we might first draw upon what our knowledge of global interdependence is now telling us, that the energy-intensive pound of beef we eat this evening represents a moral choice, a decision to worship at the altar of First World abundance and commune with those corporate demons who endeavor always to keep us there, fat and satisfied. But as Paul argues, the strength of our treasured knowledge must ultimately be fulfilled by love, "the better way," and this finds its greatest expression in action.

It is from this perspective, then, that I read anew the Apostle's advice to the Corinthians, and ponder the nature of my next meal:

[I]f food is a cause of their falling, I will never eat meat, so that I may not cause one of them to fall (I Cor 8:13).

Choice Quotes

Many businesses and corporation executives ignore God's humanizing purposes, and speak rather of profit as the "bottom line." But this is a capitalist heresy. According to the eighteenth-century philosopher of capitalism Adam Smith, businesses exist to serve the general welfare. Profit is the means, not the end. It is the reward a business receives for serving the general welfare. When a business fails to serve the general welfare, Smith insisted, it forfeits its right to exist. It is part of the church's task to remind corporations and businesses that profit is not the "bottom line," that as creatures of God they have as their divine vocation the achievement of human well-being (Eph.3:10) (Walter Wink, The Powers that Be, p. 30).

Baptism or New Creation?

Genesis 1:1-5

Mark 1:4-11

When I was in eighth grade I experienced my first independent excursion away from home when I attended a week-long church camp in what was then a rather remote part of central Michigan. I don't have any photographs of the trip, unfortunately, but I do remember two things very distinctly. First, for seven straight days it seemed like I was the main entrée for every ravenous mosquito from Big Rapids to Grayling. There were so many that the woods outside our cabin door would perceptibly hum each night with the sound of their commotion. And woe to the camper who failed to take care of business before retiring to bed – the short trip to the restrooms was a sinister gauntlet of blood-thirsty demons just waiting for their next victim.

My second memory of Cran-Hill Ranch, as the place was called, takes the form of a now nameless young seminarian who served as our chaplain for the week. Every evening we would conclude our activities with a time of singing around the campfire and then a brief message from the pastor before we turned in. I don’t recall anything of the short sermons we heard that year, but I do remember something this young man said – almost as an aside – as he prepared us for the big "come to Jesus" event that was planned for the end of the week. I can still recall the look on his face as he said it, as well as the feeling of deep theological consternation it instilled in me at the time. What I didn’t know then was that his innocent question represented a significant dilemma among the earliest disciples in the church: "If Jesus was indeed sinless, as our creeds so very clearly assert, then why did he need to be baptized?"

A brief consideration of the gospel parallels demonstrates what seems to have been a kind of inferiority complex on the part of the apostles with respect to Jesus' relationship to John. Mark's gospel makes it entirely clear that Jesus was baptized by John, despite the fact that the latter recognized the Galilean as one whose sandals he was not worthy to untie (1:8). In the hands of Matthew, however, the text takes a slightly different turn, with John objecting to the impropriety of it all: "I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?" (Matt. 3:14). This would seem to indicate that in the fifteen years that transpired between the two narrative accounts of this event there was some serious speculation about whether John may have been the greater prophet, for after all he was the one who anointed Jesus in the Jordan that day. By the time we get to John's gospel, written sometime around the turn of the second century, any reference to Jesus' baptism at the hands of John has been entirely eliminated, and we find the Baptist directing his own disciples – not once, but twice – to behold in Jesus "the lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world" (Jn. 1:29, 36).

Isn't it interesting, then, that this event in the life of Jesus, reputed to have revealed his true divinity to the world, becomes increasingly obscured in the successive narratives of the evangelists? Perhaps this is because the apostles realized over time that the details of the baptism were in fact eclipsing the importance of the epiphany that actually took place, and on which all four accounts do agree: the Spirit of God descending like a dove on Jesus, accompanied by the heavenly affirmation that this poor Galilean carpenter is indeed the son of God (Matt. 3:17; Mk. 1:11; Lk. 3:22; Jn. 1:34). What the kings from the east knew in Bethlehem is now apparent to those of the Judean countryside through the help of God's appointed messenger, John the Baptist.

But there is more to this revelation than meets the eye, and for this we can turn to the first few verses of Genesis, along with the iconography of the Orthodox Church. The Hebrew Bible opens with the Priestly account of God's creation of the world, where the spirit of God hovers over the face of the deep. I find Rashi's commentary on this text particularly helpful in his insistence that this term – tehom, the abyss – might best be described as an "astonishing emptiness." The word that God utters in the beginning shatters this state of nothingness and sets in motion the first ripples of creative possibility, of light, on the infinite expanse of darkness.

In the prologue to his gospel, John takes special care to draw on the imagery of the Priestly account of creation and places Jesus, the Word who had been revealed to him and to the world, at its center. This introduction then becomes the lens through which his entire account of the life, ministry, death, and resurrection of Jesus is interpreted. The incarnation gives him radically new insights into what transpired in the beginning. Creation, it might be said, is given a human face in the person of Christ: "all things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being" (Jn. 1:2). Paul further affirms this connection in his epistle to the Colossians: "He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation; for in him all things in heaven and on earth were created…. He himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together" (Col. 1:15-17).

In light of this, it does seem inappropriate to focus on the act of baptism in Mark 1:4-11 when so much more is at stake. In the first place, as we have already established, it cannot be said that Jesus is participating in this ritual on account of its symbolic intent. In other words, he is not allowing himself to be washed clean of past sins in the spirit of repentance as John so ably preached. On the contrary, it might be more accurate to say that the world itself is being sanctified by Jesus. His presence amidst the waters of the Jordan River recreates in a tangible way the very act of creation that is affirmed in the first few verses of Genesis.

In Jesus' baptism, the miracle of creation "in the beginning" becomes incarnate with the descent of the spirit onto the Word standing amidst the watery chaos, thus affirming what we are so prone to forget, or deny: that this world in which we live is good. This singular ritual is, in fact, a very concrete announcement of a new creation in which the Word become flesh has already begun to draw the "astonishing emptiness" of a world broken by sin into his own fullness of being. Redemption.

I often find it helpful when reflecting on the lectionary passages for the week to consider how the events contained therein have been portrayed by artists throughout the centuries. Anyone familiar with the iconography of the Orthodox tradition knows that the baptism of Jesus – Christ's theophany – has played a central role in the spiritual tradition of the church from its very beginning. It is interesting, though, that in some of these icons, if we look very closely at the waters of the Jordan, we will see depicted there a school of fish swimming around the person of Christ. Other visual interpretations of the text tend to leave these out, perhaps thinking that they are holdovers from an earlier pagan era. But for me, I want the fish to be there because they acknowledge that this is an event in which the whole of creation is participating, and in which the whole of creation can rejoice. Jesus, the Son of God, is by his very presence amidst the waters of the world, sanctifying them and affirming that they are what they have always been in the eyes of God: very good. So let the new creation begin.

When I look back on my Cran-Hill Ranch experience, I'm kind of glad I didn't take any photographs that year, because in my memories I am a much more integral part of the landscape than any snapshot could ever convey. I find in this a lesson for the church as well: while our tendency is to emphasize the individual aspects of our salvation – recalling, for instance, how our own baptism has washed us clean from the blemish of original sin – the picture is really much greater than this. Don't forget the fish, I say. Indeed, look for the fish. And the bears, the rabbits, the birds… and the mosquitoes, the snakes, and every other critter that Walt Disney has refused to portray as cute and cuddly.

In the end, the story is not simply about us, just as Mark 1:4-11 is not merely about baptism. Jesus is not only a personal but a universal Lord and Savior. Our first affirmation of faith, then, must be what we find repeatedly proclaimed in the very first book – the very first chapter – of the Bible: "God saw everything that God made, and indeed, it was very good" (Gen. 1:31).

Of Related Interest

See the excellent article at National Public Radio on the beautiful music of amorous mosquitoes. No wonder the hum outside my cabin door all those years ago seemed so melodious.

The Myrrh's the Thing

Isaiah 60:1-6

Matthew 2:1-12

The spring semester will soon begin at Hastings College and this means that I will once again be teaching an introductory course in the New Testament, something I look forward to with great anticipation every year. There's nothing I enjoy more than delving into the religious and cultural context of Roman-occupied Palestine and encouraging students to appreciate the enormous complexity of the material that they will be studying until the month of May (and hopefully thereafter). But there is one obstacle that invariably stands in the way of this endeavor, something I like to call "the Ouija board approach" to reading scripture. If this reference is less than self-explanatory, imagine trying to persuade a group of Christians – whether in college or in the church – to read the book of Isaiah on its own terms and not as a kind of visionary foretelling of events that come to fruition in the birth, life, and death of Jesus Christ.

With respect to Isaiah 60:1-6, for example, I can conceive of impressing upon the class the importance of historical context, the fact that the prophet is offering a destitute people newly returned from Babylon a sign of hope amidst unfathomable ruin. In sixth-century BCE Jerusalem, a place whose glory had long since disappeared, the Jews could look forward to little else but darkness and despair. But Isaiah's words present an alternative vision of light shining forth from the land itself and attracting both the attention and respect of the other nations.

To this radiant city on a hill the leaders of the world will come, proclaims the prophet, bringing the abundance of the sea and the treasures of the earth. Though it sounds less than appealing to us, all the camels of Midian and Ephah and Sheba will flock to the altar of the Lord. Perhaps most important of all, the affirmation of the people as both a royal and priestly nation will be made evident by the gifts that will be bestowed upon them: gold – a precious metal synonymous with kingship – and frankincense – a substance associated with the aroma of the sanctuary (Ex. 30:34) and a regular accompaniment to animal sacrifices in the Temple (cf. Lev. 2:1, 16; 6:15; 24:7). As Malachi 1:11 informs us, the latter was also a symbol of the divine name and thus an appropriate offering for the people of God.

How frustrating then to learn from more than a few Ouija board Christians that this series of verses can be understood only as a prophetic prediction of the birth of Christ in Bethlehem over five hundred years after the words were uttered. "Look," they will say, "it is all very clear: the light shining in the darkness (Is. 60:1) is obviously the star that will lead the nations – the Magi – to the Christ child; they will come riding on camels, just as the prophet foretold (60:5); and they will bring precious gifts to lay before the king. Isaiah even tells us what these will be: gold, frankincense, and myrrh."

Never mind, of course, that the third of these oblations is never mentioned – not in Isaiah, at least.

It is apparent that when writing his gospel the apostle Matthew went to great lengths to demonstrate the continuity between the birth of Christ and the messianic hopes of the Jewish people. In the two chapters that precede the Markan core of his text, there are a number of clear references – as well as a few important inferences – to what came to pass in order that "the scriptures might be fulfilled." It is all the more interesting then, with Matthew's great attention to detail, that we find this curious addition to the text of Isaiah 60. Whence, and why, this inclusion of myrrh in the story?

A simple response would be to propose that at the time of Matthew's writing the myrrh trade in the Near East was at its peak; the substance was valued among the wealthy and royalty in a way that it had not been five hundred years earlier. As myrrh was often used in conjunction with frankincense, Matthew simply felt obliged to bring his gospel up to date culturally. Certainly the Christ child was just as worthy of the highly-prized aromatic as any of the well-heeled citizens of Rome, so it was only right that he include it. But while all of this may be true historically, it is not sufficient to reveal the depth of Matthew's thinking on how the scriptures were not entirely fulfilled by the birth of Jesus. Indeed, to play on Hamlet's famous quip, "the myrrh's the thing" that reveals to us fully the God who was made known to the nations that night in Bethlehem.

Proponents of the so-called two-source hypothesis tell us that when writing his gospel Matthew (as well as Luke) used a copy of Mark as a reference – a literary foundation, if you will. This being the case, he was able to develop and explain to his Jewish-Christian community various aspects of the life, death, and resurrection of Christ that he found lacking in the earlier manuscript. His familiarity with Mark, for example, may have led him to reflect on what might otherwise seem like an insignificant incident that took place at the foot of the cross: "Then they brought Jesus to the place called Golgotha (which means the place of a skull). And they offered him wine mixed with myrrh; but he did not take it. And they crucified him…" (Mark 15:22-24a). He may have also been familiar with another tradition found in John where Nicodemus brings "a mixture of myrrh and aloes, weighing about a hundred pounds" (Jn. 19:39) to anoint the crucified body of Christ.

What seems clear in all this is that Matthew, in his account of Jesus' birth, directs his readers symbolically to the conclusion of his gospel by taking a few liberties with the Isaiahic text, and in doing so points us toward our own epiphany about the meaning of God's manifestation in the world. Introducing a substance associated with the embalming of bodies into the story of a child's birth may seem like a macabre literary device, but Matthew wants his Jewish-Christian audience to know precisely what they are in for if they venture any further into his text. Further – and this point is easily lost on us during the Christmas season – he wants them to realize that there is at least one way in which the coming of Jesus into the world did not fulfill what the scriptures had spoken.

Whereas the people of Israel looked forward to the coming of a righteous king, or perhaps a faithful priest in the line of Aaron – men, that is, who were worthy of the nations' gifts of gold or frankincense – what they did not expect was a messiah who would also fulfill the long-neglected vocation of God's prophet, with all the dubious rights and privileges accruing thereto, including an intimate knowledge of the funerary use of myrrh. As Walter Brueggemann has noted, Isaiah's prophecy, when compared to the events recorded in Matthew, is in fact nine miles off the mark. While the people of God expected a king to come in glory amidst the splendor of Jerusalem, what they got – and what the evangelist wants to establish emphatically – was a humble servant born just a short geographical, albeit a long theological distance away in the unassuming town of Bethlehem.

I am a little hesitant to admit it, but whenever I hear the story of the Magi visiting the Christ child I cannot help but be reminded of the Monty Python film, The Life of Brian, in which a version of this story is comically rendered. Believing themselves to be in the presence of the long-awaited messiah, the wise men offer their gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, to the infant Brian, much to the bewilderment of the boy's mother. As the three kings are about to leave, she thanks them for their tribute, making special note of how pleased she is with the gold and frankincense. The myrrh, however, she could do without and even tries to give it back to the visitors, feeling that such a gift is inappropriate for her new-born child.

But in this lies the "joke," if you will, and Matthew is especially concerned that his readers get it. The myrrh's the thing, the gift that reveals the God of the Israelites for who God truly is: a Creator willing to empty Godself and take on the form of a vulnerable child, thus becoming one with all of humanity and creation. We lose sight of this significant aspect of Epiphany if we, following Isaiah's lead, focus our attention primarily on the gold of Jerusalem's kings and the frankincense of the Temple priests. The good news must finally, and paradoxically, be rounded out by the messianic role of the rejected prophet, suffering in solidarity with both a broken humanity and a steadfast God, always mindful of the ever-present fragrance of death