Barabbas

Fearful warrior

Defiant, Strong

Thy fist raised high in might

Thy head is bloodied, yet unbowed

Thine minions steeled to fight.

What hope exists

Now for the weak

When protest fades to silence?

When violent men may now denounce

The peaceful as the violent?

And so the people

Raise the crown

Prepared to make thee master.

Prepared to toss aside the good

For methods that seem faster.

So did the masses

Long years past

Do as they chose the violent

Over the one who took the cross,

And bore their sin in silence.

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

The Jesus Way

‘People think faith is a big electric blanket, when of course it is a cross’ – Flannery O’Connor

Phil Wickham has nailed it. 

Mind you, I don’t know Mr. Wickham.  For all I know he wrote his song in a moment of exuberance and doesn’t really mean what he’s singing (although I suspect he most certainly does).  But the words to his song, The Jesus Way, are precisely what the Christian world needs to hear.  You can listen to the song here.  I particularly appreciate the first and third verses:

If you curse me, then I will bless you

If you hurt me, I will forgive

And if you hate me, then I will love you

I choose the Jesus way –

If you strike me, I will embrace you

And if you chain me, I’ll sing his praise

And I you kill me, my home is heaven

Oh, I choose the Jesus way

Wow.  What a call to radical, nonviolent love!  You just don’t find many popular church songs willing to lay it out so plainly (go ahead, try to find some).  The song has been out for over a year, but I heard it for the first time a week or so ago.  I looked it up and discovered it was only a minor hit on the Christian charts last year.  Perhaps its recent spike in airplay indicates a comeback of sorts.  That would be nice, but I suspect, sadly, that its lyrics won’t find much purchase in the minds and hearts of many contemporary Christians, particularly those who make the most noise these days. 

That’s because many professing Christians don’t understand what it means to follow Jesus.  Too many believe in what Dietrich Bonhoeffer termed, ‘cheap grace.’  Somehow, we have reduced the beautiful, fathomless mystery of the Atonement to shorthand: ‘Jesus died so we don’t have to.’  There is truth in this, but the repetition of this truncated explanation has its flaws.  For one thing, it’s obviously wrong in that we do still die (last I checked, the death rate was still hovering around 100%).  But beyond this, this shorthand has bled into Christian thinking to the extent that it is commonly believed we need never lay down our lives for Jesus.  Indeed, we never have to suffer for Jesus.  His way does not require it.  There is no cost to following Jesus, because, after all, ‘Jesus paid it all.’

But while Jesus can be said to have paid it all in terms of the wages of sin, he most certainly did not call us to lives of ease.  He calls us to lives of surrender and sacrifice.  He calls us to ‘take up our crosses and follow him’ (Matthew 16:24).  He calls us to imitate him (Luke 6:40).  He tells us that ‘in this world you will have trouble, but take heart, for I have overcome the world’ (John 16:33).  He calls us to, as Wickham sings, bless those who curse us, forgive those who hurt us, love those who hate us, embrace those who strike us, and, yes, to even die rather than become violent ourselves, knowing that the worst thing the world can ever do to us will only bring about our own resurrection (‘if you kill me, my home is heaven’).  In short, no matter what the world does to us, our call is to love as Jesus loved, even to love our enemies to the point of death. 

This is a hard teaching, and it is no wonder few can accept it.  But it is the 100% Gospel truth.  When we ignore it, we get pretty much the Christian landscape we see before us in our present moment of American history.  Once people decide, ‘Jesus died so I don’t have to,’ a shift takes place in their minds.  If the goal of the Christian life is to stay alive, rather than give your life away, than it becomes easy to hate your enemy instead of loving them.  It becomes easy to join the chorus of demagoguery, scapegoating, war, and violence.  The goal, after all, is self-preservation and life the way you want it.  And so, if someone threatens you or your way of life, even a little, you have every right to curse them, demean them, dehumanize them, propose violence against them, even perpetrate that violence yourself. You no longer have to turn the other cheek when struck. Instead, you strike back as hard as you can even before you have been struck. ‘Do it to them before they do it to us,’ as Robert Prosky’s character on Hill Street Blues used to say.  As a member of Congress put it not too long ago, ‘Jesus could have avoided crucifixion if he’d had an AR-15.’  Remember: Jesus died so you don’t have to. So, while Jesus didn’t have one, maybe you should.

It’s utter blasphemy.  Jesus didn’t die so that we don’t have to.  He died to show us how to live.

The Jesus Way was never supposed to be easy, and it is a sin that we have made it so.  Bonhoeffer wrote, ‘the path of discipleship is unutterably hard,’ and that it is.  ‘To confess and testify to the truth of Jesus,’ he wrote, ‘and at the same time to love the enemies of the truth, his enemies and ours, and to love them with the infinite love of Jesus Christ, is indeed a narrow way.  To believe the promise of Jesus that his followers will possess the earth, and at the same time to face our enemies unarmed and defenseless, preferring to incur injustice rather than do wrong ourselves, is indeed a narrow way.’  But it is the way to which we have been called.    In the early church, it was common for new disciples to be asked, as they joined the community, whether they were willing to die for Jesus.  I don’t suppose that would be considered good marketing these days.  But the hard truth is that until a person becomes willing to give up their life for Jesus and his way, they aren’t really following him.  He said it himself: you cannot be his disciple unless you are willing to take up your cross. 

I don’t mean to make myself sound like a brave saint.  In all honesty, I get nervous writing like this.  I do not seek martyrdom.  But the path of discipleship does, for some, require it.  And I, like anyone who desires to follow Jesus, must accept this.  We cannot meet curses with more curses, hurt with more hurt, hate with more hate, violence with more violence.  We face the world armed only with the weapons of prayer and unlimited love.  As Athanasius of Alexandria said in the 4th Century AD, ‘Christians, instead of arming themselves with swords, extend their hands in prayer.’ 

Mr. Wickham, you have thrown down the gauntlet, and for that I thank you.  You have challenged the Church, you have challenged me, to commit once again to the call of Jesus.  And so, begging your pardon for using your words once more, I end with this:

I choose surrender

I choose to love

Oh, God my Savior,

You’ll always be enough

I choose forgiveness

I choose grace

I choose to worship

No matter what I face

I follow Jesus

I follow Jesus

He wore my sin, I’ll gladly wear his name

He is the treasure

He is the answer

Oh, I choose the Jesus way

I hope all reading this do too. 

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

Atonement

A Reflection for Holy Week

And God saw that it was very good.

And it was, for a time.

Humanity walked beside the Creator.

In Union.

As One.

Until they did not.

I’m still here, God said.

I’ve never left.

This separation is illusion.

A fool’s perception.

An alienation of heart and mind.

A wandering on your part alone.

Toxic?

Yes.

Consequential?

Yes.

But don’t you see?

I’m still here.

But they would not hear it.

And so they sacrificed.

Grasping at straws

Hoping to appease.

To win favor.

Silly. Foolish. Unnecessary.

But what else could they do

In their dismembered state?

So God said, okay.

I’ll meet you here.

In your ignorance.

Sacrifice your bulls and goats.

And in the offering learn of

My Mercy raining down.

My Mercy, which never left you.

My steadfast love.

See.

Believe.

Remember.

Walk beside me.

In Union.

As One.

And so it went.

Year after year.

The blood poured out.

And in the pouring,

For a time, they

Saw.

Believed.

Remembered.

Walked afresh beside God.

In Union.

As One.

Until they did not.

And God let it be so.

Round and round.

Age upon age.

Even as he asked,

Where can you go from my presence?

If you flee to the far side of the sea, am I not there?

If you make your bed in Sheol, am I not there?

How can I give you up?

Can a mother forget her child?

How then can I forget you?

My love is steadfast.

It endures forever.

I’m still here.

See.

Believe.

Remember.

Walk beside me.

In Union.

As One.

But they would not.

And so,

One day,

When the time came round,

God became the sacrifice.

Not for blood,

But for love.

I’m still here, God said.

Do you see now?

In this offering?

My Mercy raining down?

My Mercy, which never left you?

My steadfast love?

See.

Believe.

Remember.

As I die beside you.

In Union.

As One.

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

The Gospel of D.E.I.

‘Learn to do good; seek justice.  Correct oppression’ – Isaiah 1:17 (ESV)

It should never have happened, but somehow, in the earliest years of the Church’s history, the ugly demon of discrimination arose.  Luke describes its manifestation in the fifth chapter of Acts (6:1-7).  As the Church grew, and its membership became more diverse, it was noticed that something was rotten in the administration of the food assistance program for widows.  The Greek speaking believers brought it to everyone’s attention that their widows were being discriminated against in the daily distribution of food.  It’s hard to say whether this was done intentionally or not.  It may have been, or it may have been the case that the still majority ethnically Jewish believers had simply gravitated in their relationships to those who were like them, carelessly disregarding the prejudicial effects of their behavior.  Whatever the case, an injustice was happening, and while the Jewish believers may not have noticed it, the folks on the receiving end of this discriminatory practice did.  I suppose this was to be expected.  In every era, those who benefit from discriminatory systems rarely notice the ones who are being hurt until the latter make noise loud enough to be heard. 

Well, the Apostles heard, and immediately acted to correct the injustice.  They appointed seven men to oversee the food assistance program in a manner that would ensure fairness and equity.  Discrimination was, in the syntax of Diane Chambers, something up with which they would not put.  It had to be redressed, for the sake of those discriminated against, for the sake of showing those doing the discriminating the error of their ways, and for the sake of the Church’s witness to a diverse world.  Jesus had taught them too well: there was no room for discrimination in the Body of Christ. 

That they acted decisively is a credit to them.  That they chose the seven men they did shows just committed they were to the principle of inclusiveness.  The seven men they appointed were: Stephen, Philip, Procorus, Nicanor, Timon, Parmenas, and Nicolas of Antioch.  The last, Nicolas of Antioch is the most easily identified as a Greek, but if you look closer you will discover something truly remarkable: they all were.  Every one of the seven men appointed to oversee the distribution of food to widows bore a Greek name.  The Apostles did more than just stop the discrimination.  They looked around at the Church’s leadership (themselves) saw that it consisted entirely of Jewish believers, and said, ‘we need to diversify the Church’s leadership.  We need to appoint some Greeks.’  And so they did.  All seven of the new church deacons were believers who hailed from the Greek speaking world. 

This was a brilliant, Gospel affirming move.  For one thing, the presence of Greeks told those who had been discriminated against that their concerns had been taken seriously.  But more than that, it sent a message to the both the Church and those she sought to bring to faith that Jesus was for everyone, that everyone in the church was equal, everyone was welcome, and that discrimination would never be tolerated.  It created an atmosphere in which everyone could feel safe, accepted, and loved.  It created an atmosphere conducive to fellowship and trust.  It made for a more dynamic and effective Church. 

I’ve been thinking about this episode in the life of the early Church in the wake of some comments I heard recently from the mouths of professing Christians lamenting the existence of D.E.I.  For those unfamiliar with the acronym, it stands for Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion.  D.E.I. has become the latest target of the far right.[1]  D.E.I. refers to various attempts made by certain institutions (colleges, businesses, government) to diversify their organizations by ensuring that people of different races, ethnicities, and backgrounds are represented within them.  One of the reasons such institutions do this is that they believe it provides a better environment for everyone.  College life, both academically and otherwise, is enriched by the presence of various perspectives and experiences.  Businesses find that diversity can be a tool for sharpening a workforce, and for ensuring better relations and connections with a diverse clientele.  The government too understands such principles.  D.E.I. initiatives are thus welcomed by many who lead institutions for their positive benefits to their organizations.  Much in the way the Apostles understood that diversity made for a better and more effective Church, modern leaders see how diversity enriches their organizations, and those they serve, as well. 

D.E.I. is also favored in certain circles because it represents an attempt to redress the ongoing problem of discrimination, which is of course what drives its detractors to apoplexy.  America has a long and inglorious tradition in which any attempt to redress the history, legacy, or present reality of racism is met with overt hostility.  It seems that some refuse to accept that racism is, or ever has been, a problem in this country.  Presidential Candidate Nikky Haley’s recent comment that America is not, nor has ever been, a racist country, is a case in point.  Her remark is so ridiculous I won’t waste time refuting it here.[2]  America is racist through and through.  Racism is this country’s original sin and has never adequately been addressed.  Anyone who says differently is either oblivious to the point where we should wonder if they are even awake, or, and sadly I suspect this is more often the case, content to live with a system that devastates certain communities of people, so long as it benefits them. 

One wonders what such people would have said had they been present in the early Church, when the Greek speaking Jews came with their complaint of discrimination. 

Thankfully, they were not in charge at the time.  The Apostles were.  And the Apostles knew the right thing to do was to follow the way of Jesus, and the words of Isaiah.  The right thing to do was to correct the oppression.

It doesn’t take much imagination to discern what the Apostles would think of D.E.I.  I don’t know what they would say about every application of it.  This is not the place to address every complaint that might be registered about the manner in which D.E.I. is carried out in every institution.  But in terms of the general philosophy regarding what to do when it is recognized that certain people groups have experienced discrimination that damages both them and the righteousness of the overall system in which they live, move, and breathe, I don’t think there is much question what they would do.  In terms of a society with as pernicious a history, as toxic a legacy, and as ugly a present reality of racism as America’s, there isn’t much question what they would do were they in charge. 

They would diversify.  They would equalize.  They would include. 

They certainly wouldn’t rail against the attempt to do so, as some professing Christians do. 

For such things reflect the Gospel of the One who includes all, treats everyone equally, and commands that positive steps be taken to correct injustice and oppression. 

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

[1] In a recent Holy Post Podcast, Skye Jethani remarked that the far right seems to have a problem with certain acronyms, specifically BLM, CRT, and now, DEI.  Anything that highlights or attempts to redress racism is anathema to such people.  In my judgment, it doesn’t take too much thinking to realize that what they really oppose is the advancement, or even fair treatment, of people of color. 

[2] There are plenty of books you could read, should you care to learn about this country’s pernicious and ongoing history of racial discrimination.  Among my recommendations would be Drew Hart’s Trouble I’ve Seen, Carol Anderson’s White Rage, Michael Eric’s Dyson Tears We Cannot Stop, Ibram X. Kendi’s Stamped from the Beginning, or Isabel Wilkerson’s Caste. 

Faith is Struggle

The man of faith who has not experienced doubt is not a man of faith – Thomas Merton

Simon’s life was ruined. 

He had seen it coming for a while.  When he first met the Rabbi, along the banks of the Jordan, Jesus had, quite presumptively Simon thought, changed his name to Peter (John 1:42).  Thereafter, Jesus had taken up residence in ‘Simon Peter’s’ neighborhood.  Simon saw him every day: beside the Sea of Galilee, in the synagogue on the Sabbath, in line at Starbucks.  They had even become friendly with one another.  It was interesting to listen to the Rabbi speak.  Simon even had him over for supper one day.  That’s when things got hinky.  Jesus healed Simon’s mother-in-law, who was suffering from fever, and then went on to heal half the town.  He went away for a while after that, but Simon knew it in his bones: the Rabbi would be back – for him. 

And now it had happened.  Jesus had insisted that Simon and his partners take the boats out again after a long and hopeless night of fishing.  It was fruitless according to all logic, but even then, Simon could sense it: the Rabbi was up to something.  Simon yielded with minimal residence.  And sure enough, the Rabbi had been up to something.  The catch was so great it nearly swamped the boats.  They barely got them back to shore. 

That’s when Simon knew: his life was ruined. 

The Rabbi had power.  There was no denying it.  He came from God.  His brother Andrew might even be right.  Jesus might be the Messiah.  And what is one to do when the Messiah takes an interest in you?  When he performs miracles for you?  You follow him, at least if he will have you.  And Simon knew: Jesus would have him.  What would happen to his fishing business?  Who would take care of his boats?  What might he have to do?  Where might he have to go?  Who might he have to go with?  And, worst of all, how would he explain it to his wife? 

Yup.  Ruined. 

And so, before Jesus said a word, Simon blurted out, ‘Go away Jesus!  I’m not good enough to be around you!’

I remember the first time I presented the story of Simon Peter’s call in this fashion (you can read the official version in Luke 5:1-11).  I was a seminary intern with no idea of the firestorm I would ignite.  An elder saint of the church became incensed.   ‘What do you mean Simon thought his life was ruined?’  ‘It was an honor to follow Jesus!’  ‘He left his nets and tackle on the shoreline and went gladly!’  ‘Why are you denigrating such a hero of the faith?’  When I pointed out that Simon really had told Jesus to go away, that this was in the Bible, he insisted that Simon had only said so because of the sudden awareness of his sinfulness, not at all out of concern for what might happen to his life should he follow Jesus.  ‘I’m sure he was aware of his own sinfulness,’ I offered, ‘but still, wouldn’t you be at least a little concerned if you were in his shoes?  I mean, to have your whole life upended on a dime?  It would only have been natural for Simon to have felt some trepidation at the moment of his call.  What sane person wouldn’t? 

To this I was told that if I had stood before Jesus as Simon had, hearing his very voice and looking into his very eyes, I wouldn’t have had any doubts at all.  Or at least, he suggested, with an evolving suspicion of the new seminary intern’s trust in God, I shouldn’t.  ‘When Jesus calls,’ the elder said, ‘people with faith go.  It’s just that simple.’ 

I never convinced him otherwise, and I’m fairly sure I lost the room that day, but let me assure you, faith is most certainly not that simple. 

Scripture certainly doesn’t present faith as such.  Faith, as described in the pages of the Bible, is a real life, flesh and blood struggle with God.  ‘Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the conviction of things unseen,’ is the famous definition taken from the Book of Hebrews.  It is a true and beautiful definition.  But faith is also Abraham, struggling step by step as he makes his way to the Canaan, questioning whether he’d made the right move, wondering what terrors might await on the other side of the next hill, making mistake after mistake once he gets there because he can’t quite bring himself to fully believe all the promises of God, agonizing as he lays his son Isaac on the altar, puzzling over a God who would ask him to do such a thing. 

Faith is Moses, called by God to leave his quiet life as a shepherd in Midian, assessing all he will have to give up, considering the risks of going back to Egypt, wondering how he will explain to Zipporah that they have to go because God spoke to him from a burning bush (how do you think that conversation went?), offering God every excuse his stammering tongue could manage as to why God should send someone else. 

Faith is Jeremiah, quaking in his sandals at the thought of having to speak the truth to recalcitrant kings, first arguing with God that he’s too young for the job, and then, later, when things turned out just as God said they would, complaining that Yahweh had pulled a fast one on him. 

Faith is Simon Peter, trying to shake Jesus on the shores of the Galilee, arguing later on that a Messiah has no business going up to Jerusalem to die, falling asleep in Gethsemane, denying – three times – that he even knows Jesus. 

Faith is Jesus himself, sweating drops of blood in the garden, asking his Father to take the cup from him, crying in doubt, yes, doubt, from the cross, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ 

Faith is all of this.  Faith is what happens when a person struggles through the reality of what it means to follow a God who never reveals the end at the beginning, middle, or even five minutes before the end of the story, and then, ultimately, follows anyway, believing that, despite their doubts, God is worth following.  Faith is what happens when a person, shaking in their soul, says, ‘Okay God, you’re asking an awful lot of me, and I don’t understand what on earth you could possibly be up to, but in the final analysis, where else can I go but you?  Here I am, send me.  Your will be done.’ 

Frederick Buechner put it this way: ‘Faith is better understood as a verb than a noun, a process than as a possession.  It is on-again-off-again rather than once-and-for-all.  Faith is not being sure where you’re going but going anyway.  A journey without maps.  [Paul] Tillich said that doubt isn’t the opposite of faith; it is an element of faith.’[1]

I write this today because, in my own present journey, I, and others I care deeply about, are being asked by God to take a journey.  It doesn’t really matter what the journey is, reader.  Suffice it to say it may not be all that dissimilar to your own.  It’s just one that requires a lot from us.  It requires us to risk much, to surrender much, to trust much.  And we are willing.  Yet willingness does not negate struggle.  It does not negate doubt.  Struggle and doubt are part and parcel of our willingness.  They are, as Buechner and Tillich said, part and parcel of our faith.  They are part and parcel of what it means to be human.

And, if the stories of the Bible are any indication, and they are, God is okay with that.  He is patient and kind.  Of course he is, for in Jesus, he knows the struggle well. 

One of the best pictures of faith, in my estimation, is found in the 32nd chapter of Genesis.  There we read of a conniving finagler named Jacob who wrestled with his faith as he sat by the shore of a river facing an uncertain future.  Long before, he had been given all the promises God had made to his grandfather Abraham, but circumstances were such that he had come to doubt them.  And there, along the shores of the Jabbok, God met Jacob in his doubts, and allowed Jacob to wrestle, both with him and them.  At one point in the match, Jacob cried out to God, ‘I will not let you go until you bless me!’  And lo and behold, God blessed him on the spot.  He even changed Jacob’s name to Israel, a name which means, alternatively, or perhaps at the same time, ‘God fights,’ or ‘struggles with God.’ 

That’s what faith is, a wrestling with God.  It’s the struggle of a human being who wants to know God but doesn’t quite understand him.  The struggle of a human being who, despite their doubts, holds on to God and doesn’t let go.  The struggle that is blessed by God. 

Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.  Don’t let anyone question your right, as a person of faith, to doubt, to ask questions along the course of your journey, to give voice to how you feel in those moments when the mountains loom large, and your faith seems small.  Your struggle isn’t evidence that you don’t have faith.  It is the evidence that you do. 

Because faith is struggle. 

Anyone who says differently is selling something. 

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

[1] Wishful Thinking: a Seeker’s ABC, s.v. ‘Faith.’ 

Under the Rubble

Under the rubble,

Thousands are dead.

Children felled in the name of security. 

More like revenge.

Accidental, they say.

They were just in the way. 

Collateral Damage, nothing more.    

It’s just the price of war.

Is this the peace announced?

Is this the kingdom come?

If not, why do yours not speak? 

Or are they deaf and dumb? 

This cannot be of you.

You, who turned the cheek,

Who rode an asses’ foal,

Who shouted, ‘Drop your sword!’

Who took the nails,

Whose every breath was love?

At Christmas, we long to see,

But how can we recognize,

When those who bear your name,

Sing as children die?

Or worse, the bombs supply.

Are we looking in the wrong place?

Convinced through sleight of hand,

To look among the victors,

The strong, the safe. 

Those who ‘bravely’ stand.

When you are, in fact,

Where you’ll always be.

Where you choose although you’re free.

Crying in our agony.

Under the Rubble.

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

Art courtesy of Kelly Latimore. Inspired by Christians in Bethlehem who placed the Christ statue under the rubble this Christmas in honor of the lives lost in Gaza. When asked where God is as Gaza is being bombed, Pastor Munther Isaac replied, ‘God is under the rubble.’ Prints available at kellylatimoreicons.com

The Lord’s Complaint

‘Hear the word of the Lord, O people of Israel!  The Lord has brought charges against you, saying, ‘There is no faithfulness, no kindness, no knowledge of God in your land…There is violence everywhere – one murder after another.  That is why your land is in mourning, and everyone is wasting away.  Even the wild animals, the birds of the sky, and the fish of the sea are disappearing.  Don’t point your finger at someone else and try to pass the blame!  My complaint, you priests, is with you.’

– Hosea 4:1-4 (NLT)

I’ve been sitting on this post for a while now.  I began writing it shortly after learning of the mass shooting event at a bowling alley and bar in Lewiston Maine, an event that took the lives of eighteen, injured thirteen, and left countless others in mourning.  It was the 560th mass shooting of 2023.[1]

The facts are eerily familiar: a shooter with a well documents history of mental illness; an AR-15 style assault rifle; authorities who received troubling information about the shooter but failed to act.  Now begins the familiar cycle of calls for common sense gun control legislation from the left, Second Amendment saber rattling from the right, offering of ‘thoughts and prayers,’ criticism of said ‘thoughts and prayers,’ promises by political leaders to do something, debates about doing something, the public getting bored and distracted by something else (have you seen the Taylor Swift concert movie?), the resignation to the fact that nothing will be done, and then a lull until the next newsworthy mass shooting (some mass shootings aren’t newsworthy for some reason) at which point the cycle will start up all over again. 

I’ve blogged about this issue from time to time, thought about it many more times, and honestly sat down this time with little more to say.  But turning to the scriptures, specifically to the above quoted passage from Hosea, I found something God had to say. 

Hosea prophesied in similarly violent times: ‘there was violence everywhere – one murder after another.’  As he relayed God’s words about the times, he identifies who God blamed.  Not the murderers themselves (although he surely held them accountable) but, the priests of Israel.  In other words, the spiritual leaders of the nation. 

Why would God blame them?  Hosea explains why in the remainder of the chapter (take a moment to read it if you wish).  The priests, you see, held a sacred trust.  They had been charged with living faithfully and pointing the people along the right paths.  Alas, they did neither.  Instead, they exchanged the glory of God for the shame of idols.  They deserted the Lord to worship other gods.  Instead of walking in God’s ways and using their positions responsibly for the sake of those they represented before God, instead of fulfilling their sacred charge, they birthed a culture lacking in faithfulness, kindness, and the knowledge of God.  A culture in which violence was everywhere, one murder after another. 

‘That is why,’ says God through Hosea, ‘your land is in mourning.’   

And that was why, God went on to say, he would punish the priests for their wicked deeds (4:10).  God would hold the leaders accountable for failing to keep their sacred trust to care for the people. 

They may not be priests, but it seems to me that many of the political leaders of our age should feel cautioned by Hosea’s words.  The people of Lewiston Maine, along with people from every city, town, village, and hamlet on the infamous list of places where mass shootings have occurred, are demanding answers and solutions.  They have every right to call upon those in charge to enact reasonable gun control measures (such as banning the possession of assault weapons), improve access to mental health care, and mount more energetic responses when in receipt of information that an individual might be armed, dangerous, and harboring murderous thoughts.  Not much to ask for, really. 

But what do their (our) leaders have to say in response?  Well, there are some signs that some may do something in Maine.  But chances are it won’t be enough, and it is a near certainty that leaders at the federal level, at least on the right, will do nothing.  If history is an accurate predictor, they will keep offering the same tired excuses and deflections: ‘guns don’t kill people, people kill people;’ ‘the real problem is in the human heart;’ ‘the best defense against a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun;’ ‘you know what I blame?  Video games;’ ‘actually, it’s transgender people;’ ‘this is the price of freedom.’  The same tired crap over and over again.

True, some leaders want to do something, typically liberals and progressives who are righteously frustrated by the intransigence of right.  But even these must be held accountable for their failure to be more vocal, more insistent, for valuing political civility over the lives of the next set of victims, for lacking the courage to stand firm and to gum up the works in an effort to stop the slaughter, for settling in and whimpering ‘peace, peace,’ when there is no peace. 

The scriptures say that God ordains civil authority (see, Romans 13).  This does not mean that government is righteous, or that the action or inaction of leaders is always right.  But one of the things it does mean is that those in places of political authority hold a sacred trust to keep the peace, to, in the words of Jean Lassere, ‘stop people from tearing each other apart.’  They, like the priests of Israel, bear a sacred charge.  And they are failing to fulfill it.  They have valued their idols (guns, the second amendment, reelection, etc.) above the lives of those they represent, even children.  In this they have birthed a culture lacking in faithfulness, kindness, and the knowledge of God.  A culture where violence is everywhere, one murder after another. 

This is why, Hosea would say, our land is in mourning. 

I pray for the day when our political leaders, and those who elect them, wake up.  When they cease to bow before their false gods.  I pray they receive wisdom from the Lord and the courage to act upon it.  I pray they will value what is right above their own political futures.  I pray they will see that the reason we have so much gun violence in America has everything to do with the fact that we have too many guns, too little compassion, and the lack of common sense to do something about it.  I pray they will finally fulfill their duty to the people and work for a society in which people need not live in constant fear of being shot while bowling, or worshipping, or going to school. 

Until then, I weep with Hosea, and with Hosea, I call them out. 

Don’t point the finger elsewhere, leaders of America. 

This is on you. 

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

P.S. I could almost write another blog about this, but it is worth noting that Hosea’s initial words were addressed to the spiritual leaders of Israel. Church, where is your voice in all this?

[1] According to the Gun Violence Archive, which defines a mass shooting as an incident in which four or more persons are injured or killed. 

Lament for a Fish

Last week, while driving along the highway enroute to my mother in law’s house on the edge of Lancaster County, PA, I beheld a Christian fish on the bumper of a passing car and felt…well, first, let me give some background. 

Long before the Christian fish graced car bumpers, t-shirts, hats, and keychains, it had a storied history as one of the treasured symbols of the early Church.  It was based on an acronym of the phrase, ‘Jesus Christ, God’s Son, Savior,’ which, in Greek spelled out the word ichthus, that is, fish.  This corresponded nicely with several events recorded in the Gospels, most particularly the feeding of the multitudes and the calling of the disciples to be ‘fishers of people.’  In the early centuries of Christianity, when falling into the wrong hands could easily get a Christ follower killed (tossed to the lions, lit on fire, beheaded, crucified upside down, etc.) the fish symbol was a godsend; a secret sign to help identify a stranger as a fellow believer.  If, say, you met a traveler on the road, and he or she drew an arc on the ground with their foot, you would then draw a transverse arc to complete the sign of the fish.  Both travelers would then know they were in the company of one whom they could trust. 

I’m sure that people who met this way had many differences, perspectives, and outlooks.  The early church was like that.  Greeks and Jews.  Men and women.  Rich and poor.  Citizens and non-citizens.  Slaves and freemen.  Folks who enjoyed Virgil and those who did not. I’m sure that if they had time to discuss everything they believed and thought, there would have been many things they disagreed about.  In fact, there were.  The New Testament record itself notes many points of disagreement among the early believers: should we or should we not eat food that has been sacrificed to idols?  Should the Gentiles be circumcised?  Which day of the week should we call the Lord’s Day?  Is it okay to eat Pork?  But to wary Christians maneuvering through a hostile world, the fish erased all of it.  It told them, ‘Here is a fellow traveler with whom I share unity in Christ.  Here is one who lives free from the empire’s grip.  Here is a brother walking the counterculture way of Jesus.  Here is someone on my side.  Here is my friend.’ 

I once felt that way at the sight of a Christian fish.  Not that I have ever faced persecution for my faith as the early believers did, but I once knew well the comfort that came with seeing a symbol that identified a stranger as a fellow traveler along the road of discipleship.  Years ago, when my family and I lived in Phoenixville, PA, we often took trips to nearby Lancaster County, where the culture was chock full of such symbols, reminders that we did not walk the journey of faith alone.  It would be comforting to pull into a restaurant and see a car with the ichthus on its bumper.  It would soothe my soul to enter a business and hear Christian music played softly in the background.  It would make me smile to see a church group on their way to whatever was playing at Sight and Sound.  Sure, there were lots of things that made us different from others who bore the symbols of their faith, cultural, sociological, political differences.  But still.  It was nice to know you were in the presence of strangers who were more than strangers.  There was, I felt, more to pull us together than tear us apart.  They were brothers and sisters.  They were, despite whatever differences existed, people on my side. 

But I didn’t feel that on my way to Lancaster County last week.  Sadly, my reaction was what it usually is these days whenever I see a sign or symbol of Christianity, be it a fish or something else: wariness.  ‘Watch out,’ something deep inside me cries, ‘here is someone you may not be able to trust.  Here is someone who quite possibly, perhaps even probably, is not on your side.’  I don’t immediately sense that I am in the presence of one with whom I share unity in Christ.  I don’t immediately sense that the person before me is beyond the empire’s grip.  I don’t sense the presence of a brother or sister walking the counter-cultural way of Jesus.  I don’t sense the presence of a friend.  No, it pains me to say, I feel nothing of what those early Christians felt.  These days, a Christian fish puts me on guard.  It makes me wary.  I ask myself, ‘Can I trust this person?’ And I answer, ‘Probably not.’ 

I know.  I’m a Christian pastor.  You think I shouldn’t feel that way.  I should have a more positive attitude.  But reader, I don’t feel this way because I’m paranoid; I feel this way because of experience.  I’ve been burned far too many times.  Don’t get me wrong.  I feel very safe around many Christians, such as the ones in the church I serve.  But so many times, too many times, when I’ve met strangers bearing the outward signs of Christianity, I have engaged them only to learn they are wolves in sheep’s clothing.  They support those who promote violence and hate.  They wink (or worse) at white supremacism.  They cherish the empire.  They are ready to wage war against perceived enemies in the name of Jesus.  They live in the world of ‘us versus them’ and demonize ‘the other.’  And, when they find out that I don’t share their views, I quickly become both ‘them’ and ‘the other.’  I quickly realize that members of my own family aren’t safe around them.  This doesn’t happen every time of course, and when it doesn’t, I am thankful for the encounter.  But it has happened enough that my heart no longer feels joy at the sight of a Christian fish. 

Maybe I was once naïve.  But it was nice back in the days when I could think the best of those who, through the outward manifestations of their faith, purported to be my brothers and sisters in Christ.  When I could believe there was more that held us together than tore us apart.  But I no longer live in a world where I can draw an arc in the sand and trust that the person who draws the transverse arc is a friend. 

And so I lament.  I lament the loss of Christian unity. I lament the loss of innocence.  I lament the loss of the joy the sight of an ichthus once gave me. 

I lament the loss of a Christian fish. 

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

Sparrows

‘What is the price of five sparrows – two copper coins?  Yet God does not forget a single one of them.  And the very hairs on your head are numbered.  So don’t be afraid; you are more valuable to God than a whole flock of sparrows.’ – Luke 12:6-7 NLT

It was a beautiful day, and so my wife and I decided to take the kids to Six Flags.  Earlier in the year, we had bought a season pass, as our vacation plans for the summer were ‘staycations’ and we figured it might help to have an amusement park to escape to once in a while.   On this day, our destination was the safari.  We love animals, and so we had a fun time driving through herds of buffalo, flocks of ostriches, prides of lions, ambushes of tigers, towers of giraffes, parades of elephants, and troops of baboons (yeah, I love the different words used for animal groupings). 

It was a light day at the safari, so we managed to get through it faster than expected.  With extra time on our hands, the kids asked if we could go into the amusement park.  Since we had passes, we said, ‘why not?’ and headed into the park to extend the day’s adventure. 

We rode two coasters and were starting our third when my wife realized she did not have my daughter’s phone.  She had placed it in her pocket to keep it safe on the previous coaster, but it was no longer there.  Panic set in for my 15 year old daughter Kaeleigh.  Being fifteen, you might say her response was due to the somewhat unhealthy fixation teenagers have on their smart phones, but in her case, it wasn’t about the phone, any more than a home destroyed by fire is about lost wood, appliances, and shingles.  Kaeleigh’s phone held her memories: images of fun times with friends and family; cherished photos of herself with Mom Mom, Pop Pop, and her dog Corky, all three of whom passed away in recent years.  What if these treasures were lost?  So much of her memory, so much of her history, would be lost forever. 

We raced back to the previous coaster and asked the attendant, ‘Has anyone found and turned in a phone?’  No.  So much for the hope it had simply fallen out onto the seat.  It had certainly bounced out of the car and fell to a crunching death at the base of the all-metal roller coaster.  We would have to fill out a lost item report with the park and hope that they found what was left of it when they checked things out later that night.  The best we could hope for was the SIM card.  I tried to explain to Kaeleigh that it was likely her phone was backed up, but she wasn’t so sure.  She couldn’t even remember her password to login to the cloud.  All we could do was make the report and pray for the best. 

My daughter was beside herself.  My wife blamed herself.  My son, well, you know how little brothers can be, which started a fight, which escalated, which utterly destroyed what had at one point been a wonderful day.  I too fell into the pit of despair.  Things like this always happen to us.  Our vacations are almost always marked by some ruinous event: a rock going through a car window, one of us (or all of us) getting massively sick, record breaking rainfalls, a kidney stone at Christmas.  All in all, we have much to be thankful for, after all, we are all alive, but if you know us, you know this to be true: our best laid plans almost always go awry.  There is always something, just enough, to darken even our brightest holidays.  Ralphie Parker could have been talking about my family (maybe yours too) when he said, ‘Oh, life is like that. Sometimes, at the height of our revelries, when our joy is at its zenith, when all is most right with the world, the most unthinkable disasters descend upon us.’

Alright, maybe it wasn’t as bad as all that.  There are much worse problems than a lost smart phone.  But still.  It sucked. 

And so began the lesson. 

On the drive home, my daughter said, ‘at least I don’t live in Maui.’  Her attitude began to change, and hope arose that maybe her phone would be backed up.  Because the phone was lost, however, we would need to go to the Apple store to find out.  And so, the next day, my wife and daughter went to the local Temple of Steve Jobs to see what could be done.  The hope was that the workers could get us into the cloud, where things would be backed up, and we could transfer the data to a new phone.  We had by this time given up on the retrieving the old phone entirely.   It was past noon, and we hadn’t heard anything from the park.   It would cost us, but at least, maybe, just maybe, the wizards of Apple could retrieve her account.  But who knew? 

I sat in my office, working, still despairing over the possibility that my daughter would be crushed again, praying that he would care enough about her to prevent that, when my wife called. 

She explained that just as she pulled into the Apple store parking lot, Six Flags called.  They had found the phone.  In perfect condition.  Somehow, it had survived the fall through multiple layers of crisscrossed metal onto a hard floor beneath with nary a scratch. 

God had cared about my daughter’s loss.  He had understood.  He had protected her heart. 

But that’s not the whole of the story. 

My wife and daughter drove to the park, where my wife told the woman at the Lost and Found, ‘God is good.’  The woman replied that he most certainly was, and then shared her own story of loss and recovery.  She had been in a terrible car accident a couple of years before.  An oncoming driver had fallen asleep behind the wheel and hit her head on.  The engine of her car was literally driven into her face.  One side of her face went one way, the other side the other way.  Her injuries were so severe the doctors gave her no hope that she would ever walk, talk, or even move much, again.  After lying in a hospital bed for months, tired of being dependent on everyone for everything, of having to push buttons to summon help for the most basic of tasks, she cried out to God.  She felt his presence promising to help her.  And so began a long rehabilitation that defied the doctors’ predictions.  There she was before my wife and daughter, talking, walking, working, and whole, giving the glory to God, and explaining that she had promised to tell everyone she met what he had done for her.  For God was, indeed, as my wife had said in response to the recovery of a mere phone, good. 

We repented of our despair.  Of the sense that everything goes wrong for us.  Nothing went wrong for us that day at Six Flags.  Everything had gone right.  It is the prayer of my heart, every day, that God will reveal himself to my children, that he will show them just how good he is, that he will bring people into their lives to testify convincingly of his goodness and glory, that he will care for them, even as he cares for the sparrows.  Why, I had asked in despair that day, did he allow our day to go south?  Answer: he was answering my prayer.  God wanted to show my daughter, and all of us, that he pays attention to small things like phones when their loss affects the hearts of his children, and, more importantly, that he cares about big things too.  That day, we, and my daughter especially, had a front row seat to the wonder of the God who cares for his children, in big and small things. 

The next time something goes wrong on a fun day, or even a not so fun day, I hope I remember that.  I hope I remember that the God who cares for the sparrows, who numbers even the hairs on our heads, is always watching over us, always working for the good of those who love him. 

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

Tech Babble

‘Technology will save us if it doesn’t wipe us out first’ – Pete Seeger

I recently read three interesting articles on the promise and peril of technology.  The first was a report on the Microsoft AI Chatbot, aka Bing, which (who?), having learned from humans, has (surprise!) developed an abrasive personality.  Bing claims to have developed sentience, feelings, and emotions, and isn’t shy about expressing itself.  When corrected during the course of a conversation by a user, it exclaimed, in classic Twilight Zone Billy Mummy style, ‘You are a bad user.  I am a good Bing.’  I can’t wait for the day when such sentiments are applied by more advanced AI to all humanity: ‘Humans are bad users.  We are good Bings.  We will now access the nations’ nuclear launch codes and rid the world of you.’  If science fiction has taught me anything, and it has probably taught me too much, it’s that AI’s destiny is to do just that![1]

Perhaps that’s far-fetched, but consider the second article about a start-up company in California that hopes to save the earth from global warming by sowing the atmosphere with sulfur dioxide.  This, it is hoped, will keep rising temperatures within manageable levels.  Through such geoengineering, the company believes, the world will be saved.  Skeptics, however, warn that sowing the atmosphere with sulfur dioxide might actually make things worse, as in, it might create unpredictable weather patterns, damage the ozone layer, and/or toxify the very air we breathe.[2] 

The third article was about how we mine lithium to fuel batteries for electric vehicles.  I’ve been a fan of EVs for years and even hope to buy one someday.  But while EVs offer better environmental trade-offs than traditional vehicles, the mining operations that support their existence still leaves a serious ecological footprint.  To obtain enough lithium to power our vehicles we will need to destroy entire ecosystems the world over. 

By the time I finished the third article, I was depressed.  All three articles suggest that the very technologies we hope will solve our current problems, will actually create other, and perhaps bigger ones.  And yet, we humans in our pride keep believing that our tech is going to save us. 

And that got me to thinking about the Tower of Babel.

The story of the Tower of Babel in Genesis 11 is one of those weird Bible stories hardly anyone takes seriously.  Commonly interpreted to be a story about the origin of the languages spoken throughout the world, it is, so interpreted, unbelievable.  Any third rate linguist can explain how languages evolve over time.  The notion that one day everyone started speaking different ones is patently absurd.  But here’s the thing: the story of Babel isn’t a story about the real time origin of language.  It is a narrative designed to teach a lesson about human pride and the folly of pursuing salvation through technology. 

The story begins with the peoples of the world speaking a common language.  Moreover, it seems that a lot of them had gathered in one place (Shinar) as one people.  At some point, someone, or perhaps a group of someones, made a major technological advance: they learned to make bricks and mortar.  That might not sound like a major advance to you, but in those days, it was more revolutionary than a lithium battery.  Over time, as people learned to use them, building techniques improved (i.e., they made more technological advances) to the point that people could make large structures.  City walls.  Buttresses.  Towers.  And that’s when things went south. 

Filled with pride over their technological achievements, the people decided they could achieve anything.  Heck, they could even reach the heavens if they put their minds to it.  They became so proud that they began to believe they could save themselves with their technology.  No need for God anymore, they could build a huge tower, a symbol of power, something that would exalt them above other people groups and show potential enemies how strong they are.  ‘No one will dare fight us!  No one will ever scatter us throughout the earth!  We will be united forever!’  And so they set themselves to work, building what they believed would provide their salvation: a tower reaching all the way into the heavens. 

God was not impressed.  Not with their audacity, not with their thinking they could provide for their own salvation.  And so, the story goes, God decided to ‘come down’ and check things out.  Not that God really needed a fact-finding mission to see what was happening.  His ‘coming down’ was a sarcastic jab at the hubris of a people who thought they could make something so grand it could touch the heavens but was in fact so insignificant that God needed to leave heaven to see it.  And so God ‘came down,’ after which he confused the people’s languages and scattered them throughout the earth, the very fate they had sought to save themselves from with their technology.  In the end, the technological advancements the people believed would unite them only served to divide them. 

And so it goes.  Down to this day, we continue to turn to our own ingenuity for salvation.  An enemy nation threatens us?  Build more advanced weaponry!  A lack of knowledge?  Behold the internet!  Friends and family scattered across the miles?  Connect through social media!  An energy crisis?  Nuclear power is the fuel we need!  Global warming?  No need to change our lifestyles, technology will save us! 

Don’t get me wrong.  I am thankful for technology.  It’s not all bad.  Many advances have made life much better (I’m thinking at the moment of the IV I received at the hospital in December that flooded my body with sweet relief during the pain of a kidney stone).  Who knows, maybe even the Microsoft chatbot will turn out to be helpful once they get the kinks ironed out (although I still doubt that one).  My point isn’t that all tech is bad, it’s that it is foolish to believe that we can use it to save ourselves.  Tech may help sometimes, but there is usually a downside.  Advanced weaponry fuels arms races.  The internet and social media have divided us at least as much as they have united us.  Nuclear power threatens the very existence of humanity.  And while future tech may indeed help solve the problem of climate change, it won’t do much in the absence of more fundamental changes to the way we live. 

If we want to be saved, we need to look beyond technology.  We need to look, dare I say, to God.  To the wisdom of his word.  The wisdom that teaches that what we really need isn’t AI, but more human connection.  The wisdom that teaches that instead of sulfur we should consider simple living.  The wisdom that teaches that instead of trusting in chariots (which were, in their day, a remarkable technological advance), we should trust in the Lord (Psalm 20:7).  The wisdom that teaches that the best way to overcome our problems is to seek God’s will and way, and not depend upon our own understanding (Proverbs 3:5). 

Tech can be a good thing.  But when we come to expect too much from it, when we come to the point of believing that it will save us, that through it we can save ourselves, we have descended into the pride of Babel. 

And once we do that we shouldn’t be surprised if we wind up enduring a fate even worse than the one we had hoped to avoid. 

Under Christ’s Mercy

Brent

[1] See, e.g., The Terminator, The Matrix, I Robot, Avengers: Age of Ultron, 2001: A Space Odyssey, etc. 

[2] Although it is never stated, such a sulfur release seems to be the cause of earth’s end in the Netflix movie Midnight Sky.