Escape from Babylon

Isaiah 40:1-11

Mark 1:1-8

Psalm 85




Before I begin, I would just like to wish everyone a happy New Year.

Yes, I know that January 1 is roughly a month away, but I'm getting started early on a resolution that I have been contemplating for the last several months. I am currently teaching an introductory course on Judaism and I have been impressed with the way that Jews have for centuries celebrated the coming of a new year with the High Holy Days. Beginning with Rosh Hashanah and concluding with Yom Kippur, this ten-day period is a time of deep reflection and repentance for past wrongs committed against God and neighbor. More importantly, the High Holy Days provide an opportunity for members of the faith to be reconciled with those whom they may have offended in the previous twelve or so months. I can imagine that, with the final Day of Atonement, many Jews approach the year that lay ahead of them with a sincere sense of hope and expectation, not unlike the feelings that Christians profess during the season of Advent.

So here's my question: why don't Christians celebrate the coming of the new year at Advent? It seems like such a natural progression, from Christ the King Sunday – an affirmation of Jesus' divinity, sitting at the right hand of the Father – to a time of quiet reflection on his coming, both past and future. Why have we allowed the secular calendar to mark the beginning and the ending of our days, with celebrations and resolutions that carry very little in the way of religious meaning? The apathy with which we slide into this season of the church calendar only suggests to me that while we profess our allegiance to Jerusalem, our true spiritual mailing address really lies somewhere in Babylon.

I can understand, then, the despondency on the part of Second Isaiah upon receiving his call from God to "cry out" (Is. 40:6). "What shall I cry?" is his exasperated response, as if to say, "What can I possibly tell this people who have become so thoroughly assimilated into this new culture?" The Israelites had by this time been living in Babylon for over a generation. They were speaking the language of their captors, participating in their commerce. They were comfortable in their workaday lives, despite the fact that a "quiet desperation," anticipatory of Ecclesiastes, had set in. Though many had come to terms with the transitory nature of their existence – "the grass withers and the flower fades" (40:8a) – Isaiah is called to remind his people of what appears to have been forgotten in the years since their deportation from Jerusalem: "…the word of our God will stand forever" (40:8b).

And the erstwhile people of Judah could expect that this word would come to them in a new way – not along the now familiar banks of the Chebar River, but in a place that seemed a remnant of their fading past: the desert. It was in the wilderness that the early Israelites received God's covenant through the prophet Moses, and it was here that they came to know the One who had called them out of Egypt. Now, according to Isaiah, history was repeating itself. God was beckoning God's people back into that empty place, that barren unknown pregnant with possibility, to commence their journey on a straight and unencumbered path toward the city that had been lost to them, Jerusalem.

It is an open question, of course, whether these words of comfort were received as such by those who heard them. It takes a lot of faith, not to mention enthusiasm, to pick up your belongings and venture off to a place you've only heard of in old men's tales. It was certainly more convenient to stay in Babylon. The Israelites had grown accustomed to its face. There was only one problem: this was not where God was calling them to be. So the people of God had a choice: they could stay with what they knew, or they could take a chance on the God of their fathers and mothers. Some chose the first option; others set out on "the highway through the wilderness," seeking the voice of their redeemer and a place that they could once again call their own. Perhaps this time they could, with God's help, succeed in establishing a kingdom where "faithfulness springs up from the ground and righteousness looks down from the sky" (Ps. 85:11).

Five hundred years later they were still working on it, and with disheartening results. But Isaiah's words still rang true in the ears of many who scratched out a meager existence in Roman-occupied Palestine. It was the hope of the prophet that seems to have informed the preaching of John, the voice in the wilderness, as people from all over the Judean countryside repaired hopefully into that arid landscape to hear his orations.


It is easy to overlook the geographic symbolism employed in John's ministry, but if we do so we risk losing sight of the connection between the Baptist's message and Isaiah's vision of a redeemed Israel. It is significant that John nearly always preached "on the other side of the Jordan," a point emphasized in Matthew's gospel. As a result, those who chose to turn away from their sins and be baptized were subtly directed to retrace the footsteps of the men and woman who had preceded them in faith and hope into a land where God alone would be king. The political ramifications of their repentance were therefore quite clear: though they came to the wilderness as dispensable inhabitants of some far-flung Roman colony, they returned to their promised land as their forebears had, from the ordeal of the wilderness, through the healing currents of the Jordan. Through their faith and through their baptism they were demonstrating in no uncertain terms that "Babylon" would no longer be their home. Rather, it would be the Kingdom of God whose Messiah would soon be anointed and pass through these very waters. All that was left was to await his arrival.

As we begin the Advent season, I wonder if we too might need some sort of symbolic reminder of our own need to escape from Babylon, to cross into the wilderness in reflection and prayer and re-emerge into a world that no longer recognizes us as its own. It is painfully evident, I think, that we have not done enough to emphasize the importance of this time of anticipating the birth of Christ and its significance for the world. We have allowed ourselves to become distracted and absorbed by the concerns of a culture foreign to our spiritual values. While Jerusalem beckons, we heartlessly immerse ourselves in the trifling preoccupations of our captors. Is it so difficult to see where our loyalties truly lie?

On Saturday morning I awoke to the news that on the day prior – Black Friday, as it is often called – a Wal-Mart employee on Long Island had been trampled to death by impatient shoppers rushing through the doors to snatch up their Christmas bargains. Think about that for a moment: a person was killed – trampled – by zealous consumers, and all in the name of Christmas. On the other side of the country, in Arizona, shooting broke out at a Toys R' Us store as two shoppers got into a heated dispute over an item on the shelves. The news media were quick to point out, however, that this case may have been gang-related, as if this revelation offers us a reprieve from our indignation. But still the point can be made: we place so much faith in our consumer lifestyles that some are willing to kill for it, and they feel justified in doing so.

And this is Babylon, from which we need most desperately to escape. This is Babylon, the antithesis of all that Advent compels us to hope for.

So let me end where I began, by wishing you all a happy New Year. And I'd like to invite you to join me in a resolution. This year, and every year hence, I hope to live and order my life – not just my religious commitments but the entirety of my being – by the spiritual seasons of the church, by the colors of the liturgical calendar, by the insights and meanings these have conveyed to Christians throughout the centuries.

This may seem like a wilderness path indeed, but as Isaiah reminds us, it is a straight highway, where every valley is lifted up and every mountain is made low. Yes, it means saying goodbye to the felicitous Santa Claus of consumption that we have all come to know, but in this we open our arms to the Saint Nicholas of spiritual abundance. Yes, it means turning in early on December 31 each year while the revelers make merry, but it also introduces the possibility of creating new rituals in the church – a Watch Night for Advent, for example, where congregations meet to welcome in the new liturgical year. More than anything, though, it means passing through the waters of Jordan into a new life amidst a world that is foreign to our religious sensibilities.

So happy New Year, and may this season offer you the fulfillment that comes from your own escape from Babylon.

Choice Quotes

I'm grateful to one of my students, Nathan Tramp, for alerting me to this prescient quote by Upton Sinclair:

Consider Christmas—could Satan in his most malignant mood have devised a worse combination of graft plus bunkum than the system whereby several hundred million people get a billion or so gifts for which they have no use, and some thousands of shop clerks die of exhaustion while selling them, and every other child in the Western world is made ill from overeating—all in the name of the lowly Jesus?

Of Related Interest

See Paul O. Myhre, "Has Advent Succumbed to Consumerism?: Reflections on an Embattled Season," Word & World 27.4 (Fall 2007): 407-413.

Broken Bodies, Breaking Bread

Thanksgiving 2008

Growing up in Ohio I was raised on stories of Johnny Appleseed, the itinerant sower who probably never had the chance to reap the fruits of his labors. His was a vocation forged in faith. Unlike many of us who try to tend a patch of green earth over the course of a lifetime, John Chapman planted seeds and simply moved on, hoping that one day someone would enjoy the benefits of his work and passion.

I'm fortunate to have been introduced to these tales at an early age because I think they have helped me to understand – and to come to terms with – what I do as a teacher. It can be frustrating at times not knowing how the students in your classes will process and synthesize the material that you hold so close to your heart. Not unlike the hero of my youth, I often just plant seeds and watch them move on, trusting that one day others will bring in the harvest.

Every now and then, though – and thankfully this happens more frequently than it used to – I get the chance to catch a glimpse of what the future holds, and on Wednesday I was afforded one of these opportunities. For the past week, students on our campus have been observing Hunger and Homelessness Awareness Week, taking advantage of service and learning activities focused especially on these important issues. Central to the program was a student-organized worship experience where stories were told and prayers offered on behalf of the unseen millions in our country and around the world who lack adequate shelter and suffer from food insecurity, if not starvation.

This service was especially moving for me because, for once, I began to feel my age – and it was a good thing. Perhaps it was because we are nearing the end of the semester and I'm just a little more drained than usual, or perhaps it was because we have just come away from an election in which it has been quite apparent that a torch has been passed, but as I watched these students profess their faith in various ways, I had a very palpable sense that the world was now in the hands of a new generation. And it was going to be OK. Why? Because every day I work with very bright young people who continually convince me that they are ready, and very able, to begin planting their own seeds. They really want to start the work of making things work.

I offer as two examples a brief homily written by a senior Religion and Christian Ministry major, Meggan Lloyd, and a hymn adapted by a senior Music and Christian Ministry major, Sabrina Miller. Both of these were composed especially for the Hunger and Homelessness Awareness Week worship service held on November 18. I thought they were too good not to be shared.

Breaking Bread: A Homily by Meggan Lloyd

It was a Friday afternoon, early in June. Fridays at St. Gregory’s Episcopal Church, located in the heart of the Mission district of San Francisco, are when the food pantry is in operation. A charismatic and passionate woman named Sara Miles, a self-proclaimed atheist who wandered into St. Gregory’s one day and found a home, runs the pantry from the altar of the church. I had flown to San Francisco to work with Sara, attracted by the notion of giving away food from the same place where we receive it.

The pantry is run solely by volunteers, many of whom were once visitors to the pantry themselves. They arrive early in the morning and unload the crates of food onto flattened cardboard boxes. The end result is an array of colors and smells, as fruits, vegetables, breads, pastas, beans, cereals, and dry goods are heaped into piles encircling the altar.

From noon to 4:00 on Friday, every Friday, these groceries are then subsequently given away. No questions asked; no restrictions placed; no forms required. Anyone and everyone is welcome, whether first time visitors or monthly regulars. No one is denied.

I was assigned to a job by the door, and from this post I was able to observe the visitors coming in and out of the pantry. There were diverse nationalities: Hispanic, Russian, African-American, Chinese. Women who looked as if they called the streets home; children too young to be in such need; a man dressed to the nines in an expensive three-piece suit: a regular customer.

I watched body expressions, listened to comments. One old Chinese immigrant raced in with her grocery sack open and ready, and exclaimed with delight at the potatoes. “Look at those potatoes! So good! So good!” she repeated, over and over. Another old woman, when handed an ice cream pop, a special treat that week, didn’t have to exclaim or shout; the tears streaming down her face said enough.

The food pantry at St. Gregory’s is one of many such free grocery pantries across San Francisco. In an interview, the assistant director of the San Francisco food bank was asked about the aim of such programs. She painted a vivid image by stating, “Donors love pictures of cute little kids having snacks at school. And they support meal programs for seniors. But nobody’s lining up to say, 'Gee, I want to put food in the cupboard for really poor black mothers who use drugs; I want to buy groceries for everyone living in the projects.' Very few donors trust poor people enough to just give away food without conditions.”

I was humbled by Sara’s ability to do this, this giving away of food with no conditions. She held the capacity of being able to treat every visitor with dignity and respect, no matter what their story or circumstance. Many of the guests confided in her, sharing tales of their past, the tumultuous events that led them to St. Gregory’s. Instead of shying away she embraced them, their needs outweighing what they had done in her eyes. To the rest of St. Gregory’s congregation the visitors to the pantry had been invisible; Sara gave them a name, a face, and a voice.

In her memoir Take This Bread, she states that by walking into St. Gregory’s she discovered a religion “rooted in the most ordinary yet subversive practice: a dinner table where everyone is welcome, where the despised and outcasts are honored.”

As we reflect on this Hunger and Homelessness Awareness Week I would challenge everyone in this chapel to think about the tables we sit at, the spaces in which we live. Who is invited? Who is welcome? Do we distinguish between the worthy and unworthy? Do we place labels and set restrictions?

Four o'clock came too fast that Friday afternoon in June. I wasn’t ready to leave. I wasn’t ready to be done. I felt I had been one small piece of something meaningful to the hundreds of people the pantry served that day, learning invaluable lessons along the way.

Later in her memoir Sara Miles goes on to say that when contemplating starting the pantry, she couldn’t shake the image, that vision of a Table where everyone was welcome. As she says, “our neighbors, friends and strangers, were hungry. The very least a church could do, for starters, was feed them.” Let us think about this notion, this challenge of welcoming everyone, worthy and unworthy, to our table. Let us invite everyone to eat.

Is the Bread a Broken Body?

Lyrics by Sabrina Miller. Sung to the tune of "Come Thou Fount."

Is the bread a broken body and a source of life unknown,
Or a clear and present danger of a Kingdom all our own?
Can the wine offer forgiveness for a sin that's left uncleansed?
Here we eat and they go hungry, is this what our God intends?

In a pew the Pharisees sit shouting prayers into the streets.
Those who hear them cannot listen over famished heartbeats.
Wretched lost and then forsaken, broken, battered, crucified.
Let us feed them, let us love them, not the least of them denied.

God intended good creation, woman, man, or otherwise.
Let us join together singing hymns of praise and sacrifice.
We God's children fill a promise of a Kingdom come to earth.
We shall spread God's love around us to shed light and bring new birth.

Wrath of God 2.0

Zephaniah 1:7-18

Matthew 25:14-30

When I look back on my early childhood images of God I realize that such notions as wrath and judgment really had little influence on my budding faith in the Creator. Perhaps it was my theologically protective parents who chose to emphasize the goodness of the One to whom I recited my simple prayers each night, or perhaps it was the Presbyterian Church where I spent my Sunday mornings contemplating a God who was sometimes indistinguishable from Santa Claus, or perhaps it simply boils down to my sheltered middle-class upbringing, but the first ten or so years of my life were entirely devoid of any conception of divine retribution.

Even in adolescence, when my periodic resolutions to read the entire New Testament resulted only in an intimate understanding of the first ten or so chapters of Matthew, I was still unlikely to use the words "divine" and "anger" in the same sentence. No, the Sermon on the Mount, which formed the core of my insights into the nature of God's relationship with the world, seemed to leave little room for such associations. Call it selective reading if you will, or perhaps it was just wishful thinking.

All of this changed, of course, when I ventured out beyond the comfortable confines of Gahanna, Ohio, and enrolled in college. I was in a new place, with different friends from varying backgrounds. It was my sophomore year when I was first introduced to the notion that the world can be easily divided into neat little groups of insiders and outsiders. The former – as this particular line of reasoning went – were those who could demonstrate the work of the Holy Spirit in their lives by speaking in tongues; the latter… well, God had plans for them. And it wasn't pretty. If there was any doubt on this score, there was an entire arsenal of Bible passages – the real zingers coming from the Old Testament – that could be enlisted to make the point. Scripture was clear: the apostate were sure to endure a terrible day of wrath, and you certainly didn't want to be on the business end of it:

... the sound of the day of the Lord is bitter. …a day of distress and anguish, a day of ruin and devastation, a day of darkness and doom, a day of clouds and thick darkness, a day of trumpet blast and battle cry against the fortified cities and against the lofty battlements. I will bring such distress upon people that they shall walk like the blind; because they have sinned against the Lord, their blood shall be poured out like dust, and their flesh like dung (Zeph. 1:14-17).

If this doesn't send you running back into the welcoming arms of the Beatitudes I don't know what will. I never did catch on to tongues, so these images were frequently featured in my shame-filled, outsider's imagination.

After college I worked as a community volunteer in eastern Kentucky where they play the insider-outside game with even greater gusto. One afternoon while I was having lunch with some of my fellow workers I committed the unpardonable sin of suggesting that the theory of evolution is not necessarily incompatible with the doctrines of the Christian faith. In college, this kind of innocent salvo was usually a prelude to a fairly engaging discussion. But the Appalachian coal country was a far cry from college, apart from the familiar experience of having the wrath of God offered up to me as a certain consequence of my insolence in the face of biblical truth. The recipe was pretty much the same: one part spilled blood, two parts fire from heaven, mix thoroughly with wailing and gnashing of teeth, simmer eternally over high heat. Serves a wayward multitude.

Thankfully, twenty years hence, I've moved past this, and when I am asked to summarize succinctly the content of my faith I find myself once again at the very place I started: the Sermon on the Mount. But I still bristle every time I run across one of those painfully familiar scripture passages that are employed among the fear-mongers to keep the faithful in line. It's the stuff of emerging demagoguery on every college campus I've ever known, and it still somehow consoles the hearts of many in congregations where the last chapter of salvation history seems always to take center stage. And it's biblical.

Or is it? This is the question we have been considering in my Contemporary Theology course, especially with respect to the traditional interpretations of atonement. The most popular professed over the last several centuries, however – as any survey of church hymnody is likely to demonstrate – has been the penal substitution theory, which explains Jesus' death on the cross as a self-offering to God. Christ endures the punishment that is rightfully due to fallen humanity. Our reconciliation with God is thus a direct consequence of this perfect act of submission. God's wrath, so evident among the Hebrew prophets, is finally appeased.

This sounds so reasonable and matter-of-fact when it's on the lips of a true believer: "Christ died for my sins." "He bore the punishment that I deserve." "I was saved by his blood." But when this is paraded in front of a few bright and skeptical college students – and especially those who have heard this mantra one time too many – the response usually goes like this: "OK, so let me get this straight. Jesus' death on the cross saves you. But what I'm hearing you say is that it saves you from God. I'll pass on that silliness, thank you very much."

Other objections can be raised against the belief that reconciliation takes place when God's anger is somehow mollified through the spilling of blood, as if redemption can only be achieved through some heinous act of violence. This emphasis seems simply to turn God into a celestial version of John Brown.

One of the books we have been using in our course – Recovering the Scandal of the Cross: Atonement in New Testament and Contemporary Contexts, by Joel B. Greene and Mark D. Baker – has been very helpful in unpacking the biblical foundations for the atonement theories that have been advanced over the last two thousand years. It is particularly critical of penal substitution, primarily for the reasons I have just described. I am most grateful, however, for how the authors have isolated passages of scripture so that we can hear them again in their original socio-historical context. One result of our careful reading of this text has been a renewed understanding of how God relates to a fallen world. I now see "divine anger" in an entirely new light -- I call it "wrath of God 2.0."

The idea is Pauline and deceptively simple, but it has afforded me a kind of release from some of those old fears that still linger in my mind in times of weakness. I am still vulnerable to my trepidations about somehow provoking the anger of God with my bad choices. But Green and Baker offer me some breathing room.

To put it pointedly, here [Rom. 1:18ff] Paul has nothing to do with an emotion-laden God who strikes out in frustration or vengeance against we who are implicated in sin. Sinful activity is the result of God letting us go our own way – and this "letting us go our own way" constitutes God's wrath. In Paul's own words, the wrath of God is revealed in God giving humanity over to their lusts, over to their degrading passions and over to their debasement of mind…. Our sinful acts do not invite God's wrath but prove that God's wrath is already active (emphasis in original, p. 55).

I know this is counter-intuitive, especially for those of us who have been victimized by the threats of hell-fire and brimstone as just retribution for our wicked ways. But if what Green and Baker are suggesting is correct – and I want to believe it is based on my intimations of the divine and their expertise as scholars – then this changes everything.

Welcome to version 2.0.

God's wrath has long been misunderstood as a consequence when all along it has been a condition. It's not a response to human sin, not vengeance called down by our wicked ways. Rather, it's the refusal to acknowledge the original grace by which we were created and are redeemed. It is an existential choice of darkness in the face of light, and it is made all the more disruptive by the fact that we perceive it as coming from without instead of from within. We are all the more likely, then, to bury our talents deep in the ground, where no one can find them, believing with every fiber of our being that God is a harsh master, reaping where he does not sow, and gathering where no seed has been scattered (Matt. 25: 24b). This overwhelming fear of divine consequences only further attests to our sinful condition, to our ingratitude in the abiding presence of grace.

Adopting this perspective is the only way I can come to terms with what appear to be very harsh words in the conclusion of Jesus' Parable of the Talents. Now, I read it like this:

For to all those who have (i.e., to all those who affirm the goodness of God as foundational to their lives), more will be given, and they will have an abundance; but from those who have nothing (i.e., those whose human calling is stifled by the fear of God's wrath, an unfortunate attribute of their sinful condition), even what they have will be taken away. As for the worthless slave, he is already living in the outer darkness amidst his own weeping and gnashing of teeth.

Like many, I have suffered long under the original version of the wrath of God, but I find that it is no longer compatible with my operating system. Thank goodness Joel B. Green and Mark D. Baker have furnished us all with an attractive and worthwhile upgrade. I'm still trying to work out some of the bugs of course, but all indications seem to suggest that I'm going to be an enthsiastic advocate of 2.0.

Shock and Awe in the Kingdom of God

Amos 5:18-24

If there is any day on our civic calendar that approximates the religious ritual of atonement it would have to be the first Tuesday in November. While historians are fairly resolved on the fact that the legacy of our current president will be grim – perhaps the worst ever, according to an editorial by New York Times columnist Nicholas D. Kristof -- there is one bright spot that accompanies the conclusion of his term. George W. Bush has almost single-handedly transformed the nation's enthusiasm for voting from a ho-hum right to a secular sacrament. Already it appears that record numbers will turn out at the polls this week, and in nearly twenty years of teaching I have never seen college students so motivated to let their voices be heard. Some are concerned about the economy, some about the war, but more than ever there are those who are drawn to the one question that consumed the prophet Amos: When will we see justice?

I am currently teaching an introductory course in the Hebrew Bible and I have to say the timing this year is perfect: on Monday and Wednesday of this week we will be considering the Tekoan dresser of sycamores, the outsider and novice – "I am no prophet's son" (Amos 7:14) – who made his away into the shrine at Bethel to tell the priest, Amaziah, what exactly was on God's heart and mind. It is striking, I think, just how similar the social and economic conditions of Amos's day are to those that we have endured over the last eight or so years, both in the United States and around the world.

After breaking away from the southern Kingdom of Judah in 922 BCE, the kings of Israel made a quick study in becoming the kinds of rulers their predecessors had so despised in Jerusalem. The names Ahab and Jezebel will forever live in infamy as symbolic of the material excesses that marked the ninth century, and by the middle of the eighth century their apostasy would be recapitulated in the rule of Jeroboam II. At that time, Israelites were losing their land in droves and being sold into slavery. Wealth was becoming concentrated in the hands of an undeserving few while the many – namely, the Am ha' Aretz living outside of Samaria – were left with "cleanness of teeth," as the prophet describes it. Sound familiar? If a Bible teacher cannot draw some parallels between these socio-economic travesties and those of our own day, then maybe he or she should consider selling insurance.

Of course, Amos is not the cheeriest of prophets. One has to look hard and long to find any inkling of hope in his message (even his concluding words in 9:11-15 are considered to be a scribal gloss). His understanding of the pathos of Yahweh is closer to the wrath that we encounter in the early chapters of Genesis than to the faithful but guarded optimism we find later in Micah or Isaiah. To those whose expectation of the Day of the Lord included images of triumph and victory over Israel's enemies, Amos offers a disappointing insight into the way it's really going to be. With the Assyrian threat mounting to the northeast, he puts two and two together and arrives at a clear understanding of the imminent fate of the northern kingdom:

Alas for you who desire the Day of the Lord! Why do you want the Day of the Lord? It is darkness, not light; as if someone fled from a lion and was met by a bear; or went into the house and rested a hand against the wall, and was bitten by a snake. Is not the Day of the Lord darkness, and not light, and gloom with no brightness in it? (Amos 5:18-20)

Amos is acutely aware of Yahweh's anguish in the face of the people's rote and therefore meaningless religious rituals. And what is most distressing is the way in which the Israelites assume that this is all that God truly requires of them: pomp and circumstance to the exclusion of covenant responsibility for the poor and marginalized. To this there seems to be only one solution: Let justice (mizpah) roll down like waters, and righteousness (tzedikah) like an ever-flowing stream (Amos 8:24).

I know what Amos has in mind here. Having lived in the Cumberland Mountains of east Tennessee, I have a very clear sense of what the prophet must have encountered among the wadis of his homeland on those occasions when the spring rains became less of a blessing than a burden to the land.

For years the people of Appalachia have experienced the kinds of social and economic conditions that so piqued the indignation of the shepherd from Tekoa. For much of the past century many of them were forced to suffer the ignominy of indentured servitude to the coal companies of the northeast. Now, with much of the "black gold" gone, the hollers and hills are being cleared indiscriminately of their valuable timber. With the mountains devoid of vegetation, there is little left on the slopes to absorb the rains when they come, so in effect the landscape becomes one huge funnel. The waters roar through the stream beds like a runaway train, taking with them whatever is unfortunate enough to be in their path.

Amos's allusion to the torrent of justice and righteousness was a favorite of Martin Luther King, Jr., and is even inscribed on a monument outside the Civil Rights Memorial in Montgomery, Alabama. The unthreatening waters that are usually associated with this reference, however, are a far cry from the flood of Noahic proportions that Amos called down upon the nation of Israel. In his mind, the tumult of chaos would soon be released on the wayward people of God, and it was not clear from his proclamation whether anyone, or anything, would remain in its wake.

I have to say that over the last eight years I have grown a little weary of this frontier brand of justice. And though I do not doubt that Amos believed God would mete out righteousness in this way, my reading of the subsequent prophets, as well as the inspiration I take from the life of Jesus, tells me simply that Amos was wrong about how God works in the world. There are many who still want to claim that this is how justice should be established on this planet – with "shock and awe diplomacy" and a "bring 'em on" approach to international relations – but I would like to think that there is by now a majority in the United States who have come to realize the futility of all this bravado. So let the cowboy ride off into the sunset; it is time for a change.

But what is this change going to look like? What should it look like?

This past Sunday was a picture-perfect fall day in Nebraska so I had a hard time not hopping on my bike and taking to the trails. I'm glad I finally gave in to temptation, because along the way I was inspired by the easily overlooked wisdom of my place. In the midst of so much seasonal transformation, I was moved to imagine a better way for justice to be unleashed upon the world.

As I observed the trees and plants around me – all well past their prime and just barely hanging on to the remnants of summer's vitality – my eyes were drawn to what first appeared to be a blemish on the landscape: little pieces of white fuzz everywhere, as if someone's down jacket had burst open somewhere upwind from me. But on closer inspection I realized that what I was seeing floating in the air, caught on the branches of trees, and strewn about so liberally on the dying grass, were the downy-white tails of thousands of milkweed seeds. What I had originally perceived as litter now looked suddenly beautiful. I took it as a sign of simple optimism in the midst of imminent death. Chances are that only a small fraction of these fluffy little miracles will ever take root – so many sown yet so few grown. But one seed carries within itself the potential for thousands more in another season as the cycle continues, and herein lies our hope.

There's not much in the way of shock and awe in all of this, at least not in terms of how it is measured by the standards of our day. In fact, it all seems to go on unnoticed. It is inconsequential to most passersby, and certainly far from compelling. But I can think of no better metaphor for a renewed understanding of how justice and righteousness might be dispelled amidst the chaos and confusion of our present context. I am wary, of course, of taking too much stock in what the democratic process can offer us in the way of true spiritual fulfillment, but it is my hope that on November 4 the old chrysalis of a lifeless past will burst open and release a new and transforming campaign upon the "shock and awe" mentality of the business-as-usual set.

While Amos's torrents of justice might appeal to our passion for vengeance in an overly violent milieu, the way of Christ offers a bold though seemingly ludicrous alternative: a gentle revolution of justice waged in hope, one seed at a time, each carried on the down of faith by the wind of the Spirit blowing where it will. This will not be breaking news, so don't expect to see a new band of "milkweed renegades" on your local television channels. No one will be watching. No one will be keeping score. But seeds will still be sown. It will not even be clear if, when, where, or how these tiny rudiments of righteousness will take root, but when they do they will most certainly carry with them the encouraging prospect of good fruit, and a return of as much as a thousand-fold.

And this will be "shock and awe" enough for the Kingdom of God.