Pastorbrentmiller

The Dawn From On High

‘When Herod was the king of Judea, there was a Jewish priest named Zechariah…’ – Luke 1:1

The following is an excerpt from chapter one of my book, The Dawn from High: Advent Through the Eyes of Those Who Were There.

It is a terrible thing to lose one’s faith. I know because there was a time in my life when I had. Not entirely of course. In fact, my wife and I did our best to live as God taught in the Law of Moses. Had I lived in your day, I would have been the guy who went to church every Sunday, believed every line in the Apostle’s Creed, and drove around with the outline of a fish on my car. But for all that, I had lost my faith. I knew God could do amazing things. I just didn’t think he would. I guess you could say I was a functional atheist. I believed, but at the same time, I didn’t BELIEVE.

My problem was caused by two things. First, the silence of God in the face of my people’s oppression. The Romans ruled over us with an iron fist, taxing us, enslaving us, and defiling the land with their pagan ways. Through the prophets of old the Lord had promised a deliverer, the Messiah, but he sure was taking his time about it. It had been centuries since that promise had been made, and so, while I never ceased to believe God would keep it, I didn’t expect that to happen in my lifetime. I simply did not believe I would live to see the day of his appearing. Perhaps sometime in the future, in the lifetime of my son…

That was the second reason I had lost faith. My wife and I had kept the Law. We loved the Lord with all our hearts, souls, minds and strength. But the deepest prayer of our lives, the prayer for a child, had gone unanswered. Well, that’s not entirely correct. It seemed as if it had been answered, and the answer was a big fat ‘No.’ It was the heartache of our lives, though we did our best to conceal it. Everyone saw us as so righteous and devout. It would never have done (or so we wrongly thought) to let people know we had feelings too. And so, while I believed in God’s promises, at the same time I didn’t. Sure, they were true. But not for Elizabeth and I.

But then one day God did something that restored my fragile faith. This is my story – the story of how God made me a believer again.

It was the proudest day of my career. I had been selected by lot to burn incense in the Holy Place of the Temple. This was an honor many priests never experienced, and yet another blessing I believed had passed me by, but there I was, chosen to perform this sacred act. I would come as close to the Most Holy Place, the place that once held the Ark of the Covenant, where God himself dwelled in the days of our ancestors, as a priest such as myself was permitted to go. Only the High Priest could go further, into the Holy of Holies, and that was only once a year on the Day of Atonement. I was to stand right outside that most sacred space and burn incense to the Lord. It was to be the greatest moment of my priestly career.

I made preparation and entered the sanctuary of the Lord. Before me stood the altar, behind it, the curtain that separated me from the Most Holy Place. I had chills. I could hardly believe I was there. With shaking hands I presented the offering. I was so nervous I honestly don’t know how I got through it, but somehow I did. I then prostrated myself before the altar, offered a prayer for the salvation of Israel and, still quivering, rose to leave.

Only I didn’t leave. Because that’s when I saw something I never expected to see.

It was an angel. I wish I could describe what he looked like, but honestly I can’t. All I can tell you is that he was both beautiful and terrifying. Thinking back on the experience, I can only chuckle at the fact that I had been standing as close to the presence of God as I had ever hoped to come, and yet was surprised to encounter the supernatural. Like I said, I was a functional atheist. But I wasn’t chuckling then. I was terrified. So there I was, shaking like a baby’s rattle, when just as suddenly as the angel appeared, he spoke.

‘Do not fear Zechariah, for your prayer has been heard!’ My heart nearly seized up when he said that, for I had just prayed for Israel’s salvation, for her deliverance from Rome. That alone was the greatest news I had ever heard. But deep within me, another thought competed for prominence: the thought that perhaps he was referring to my other prayer, the one my wife and I had offered so many times. I was no longer sure which of the two prayers he meant, but either one being answered would have been enough for me.

That’s when the angel really bowled me over.

‘Your wife Elizabeth will have a son, and you will name him John! You will be filled with great joy, as will others at the news of his birth. He will be great in God’s sight, and will be filled with the Holy Spirit. Indeed, he will bear the spirit and power of Elijah, and he will turn the hearts of Israel back to God. And he will clear the way for the coming of God’s Messiah!’

O Sovereign Lord! How easy it is for me now to thank you for what the angel said then! Not only did you give me a son, but you made him the one to prepare the way for your Messiah! Every reason I ever had not to believe had been dispelled in that moment. Not only could you do great things, but you were doing them! And you were doing them through the likes of me!

But alas, at the time, after so many years of not truly believing, I didn’t say anything like that. I said something else. Now please, before you judge me, put yourself in my shoes. My wife and I were hardly spring chickens. Sure, I knew about the story of Abraham and Sarah, and the miraculous birth of Isaac, but that had been a long time ago. And so, as I tried to get my mind around the angel’s words, I blurted out the dumbest thing I ever said in my life.

‘How can I know this will happen? I’m too old to have children, and my wife’s right up there with me. How can I be sure you are telling me the truth?’ Such a reasonable thing to say, don’t you think? So rational. So well grounded in fact. It was an entirely logical question to ask.

It was also utterly dismissive of the power of God.

The angel certainly thought so. He seemed to grow in size, beauty, and terror as he spoke: ‘I am Gabriel! The messenger of God! I have brought you good news, the greatest of all, and all you can say is that you’re too old! Well let me tell you ‘Mr. Too Old,’ I stand in the very throne room of God. And if you did that for even one minute, you would not dare question what God can do. But since you have asked for a sign, I will give you one. My words will be fulfilled in their time, but until they are, you will not be able to speak!’

I was struck dumb in an instant. I tried to respond but could not. But the punishment was fitting. I had been a priest for so long, but I had been all talk. When the chips came down, I did not believe. The angel’s punishment was fair, and which is more, redemptive, for over the next nine months, I would have ample opportunity to quietly watch, learn, ponder, and pray as I rediscovered what it meant to believe…

For the rest of Zechariah’s story, and to hear other perspectives on Advent through the eyes of Mary, Joseph, a Shepherd, Simeon, Anna, Herod and Gabriel, click here to check out my book The Dawn from On High.

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

Photo courtesy of Levi Bare on Unsplash.

Uncle Ned

‘Last night I had the strangest dream’ – Matthew Wilder

I had a vivid dream the other night. I was at some sort of family gathering. Maybe it was Thanksgiving, maybe something else, but whatever it was, it was a major league affair. We’re talking Bilbo Baggins’ eleventy-first birthday party. Everyone was there – parents, grandparents, children, siblings, uncles, aunts, cousins, and spouses. The weird thing was that there were more people there than are actually in my family. It was as if an extra 500 people had been grafted into the family tree for the occasion. This made things super cool, I thought, since my family was now a representation of humanity. There were people of every race, nationality, and ethnicity. It was a foretaste of what heaven on earth will one day look like. I didn’t know everyone from real life, but in my dream, they were all part of my family.

Including Uncle Ned.

I don’t actually have an Uncle Ned. But I’ve heard people on the news talk about him from time to time. Uncle Ned is a name I’ve heard bandied about on TV in reference to that guy who seems to be in everyone’s family tree and who causes trouble at family gatherings. The guy who can’t keep his mouth shut and winds up offending everyone present.

Yes, it was that Uncle Ned. And he proceeded to do just what all proverbial Uncle Neds do.

He started off by talking about ‘colored people.’ He launched into an incoherent rant about NFL protests that before long morphed into a nostalgic longing for the ‘good old days’ when people knew their place. Looking around the room at African American family members, he suggested that none of them had been born in America, that their birth certificates proved it, and that if they had trouble with what he was saying, they really should just get over it. ‘After all,’ he said, ‘Slavery ended hundreds of years ago. What do you have to be so upset about?’

He moved on to immigrants and refugees. He said that ‘bad hombres’ and terrorists were ‘invading’ the country and that we had to do something to get them all out of America. They were taking all our jobs. They were spreading disease. And why the hell couldn’t they learn English? Uncle Ned found it particularly horrific that voicemail systems kept asking him to ‘press one’ for a Spanish menu. It was a sure sign the world was going to hell in a hand basket. He advocated for a wall to keep people from coming in, and immigration policies that favored nations populated by white, English-speaking people. ‘Why,’ asked Uncle Ned, ‘do we have to keep taking in all these people from s—thole countries? They don’t belong here. Put ‘em in cages!’

By this time, many of the attendees were deeply offended and hurt. But Uncle Ned was just getting started. He began riffing on the mentally and physically handicapped, speaking in a slurred voice and gesticulating with his hands as if he suffered from some type of palsy. Everyone sat in shocked silence as Uncle Ned laughed his way through his routine.

Next came the women. Boy did he have a lot to say about them. I won’t even repeat it. As he made his way around the room, he groped several of the ladies present. He said that he would probably date them if they weren’t his relatives. Their horrified looks and tears meant nothing to him. When some protested, he made demeaning comments about their appearances.

This prompted a response. Uncle Bob, who had served in the military, including time as a prisoner of war, told Uncle Ned he needed to settle down. Ned just laughed in his face. ‘Who the heck are you to talk to me? You think you’re a hero? I prefer heroes who don’t get captured.’

Uncle Ned didn’t stop there. He attacked a nephew who worked for a newspaper, calling him an enemy of the state. He told an LGBT family member he was a disgrace to his family. He called a politically liberal cousin a communist. He said that anyone in the room who disagreed with him was unpatriotic. He proceeded to announce to several present, who apparently worked for Uncle Ned in his business, that they were fired because they hadn’t stood up for him as they should have. He ran about the room like a school yard bully, disparaging everyone.

In my dream I was doing a slow burn all the while. I kept wanting to speak up but for some reason could not (you know, like in those dreams when you are trying to run away from something and can’t move). But finally, I found my voice. I told Uncle Ned to shut up. I told him we had no room in our family for racism, xenophobia, and the rest. I told him that if he couldn’t behave himself and treat people respectfully, he needed to leave immediately.

And that’s when everyone cheered. My entire family, both those who are members of it in real life and those who were just part of it for the dream, chimed in and told Uncle Ned they felt the same way. And when Uncle Ned responded by stating that the Constitution gave him the right to do and say whatever he wanted without fear of repercussion, we somehow collectively grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and threw him out the back door.

I woke with a start. It had only been a dream. But the thought that came to mind was this: of course my family had stood up to Uncle Ned. I mean, seriously, who on earth would ever condone such behavior? What decent person would ever, under any circumstances, defend Uncle Ned? How insane would anyone have to be to support the likes of him?

It was then that I remembered: 46% of America elected him President.

And are poised to do it again.

I tried to go back to the solace of sleep but could not.

Some nightmares are all too real.

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

Photo courtesy of Dyaa Eldin on Unsplash

Fools No More

‘We are fools for Christ, but you are so wise in Christ! We are weak, but you are so strong! You are honored, we are dishonored! To this very hour we go hungry and thirsty, we are in rags, we are brutally treated, we are homeless. We work hard with our own hands. When we are cursed, we bless; when we are persecuted, we endure it; when we are slandered, we answer kindly. We have become the scum of the earth, the garbage of the world – right up to this moment’ – Paul, the Apostle, in 1 Corinthians 4:10-13

Paul just didn’t get it. The church he had helped plant in Corinth had, in his absence, gone off the rails. He had taught them about the folly of the Cross that was in fact the wisdom of God, and still they decided to go in big for something else. The life they were pursuing looked nothing like the life of true discipleship. Paul, as an apostle, a disciple who had been sent to tell others the truth, could not help but draw out the contrast. The Corinthians desired to be seen as wise, strong, and honorable. They yearned for ease, wealth, and power. While the true Jesus followers were mistreated, poorly attired, homeless, and weary from heavy labor. The scum of the earth. The garbage of the world. And yet, when the world treated them as such, they endured. They even blessed their enemies and treated them with kindness. It was as if they expected to be treated poorly. Paul’s point was pretty clear: life as a follower of Jesus wasn’t supposed to be life at the top.

This is what the Corinthians had forgotten.

This may seem an odd segue way, but I was thinking of Paul’s description of true discipleship the other day after finishing the Steven James’ novel Synapse, a story set in a not so distant future in which Artificial Super Intelligence has become a reality. The novel raises ethical questions about AI, questions James wisely leaves lingering for his readers to contemplate on their own. But along the way we are confronted by the thought of what would happen if technology became available to enhance human intelligence. A simple implant in the brain, and suddenly we could be super intelligent, connected to all sorts of digital information, super-human. Who wouldn’t do it? Well, some would not. They would prefer the experience of being natural people. What would become of them? We are left to ponder the possibility that they would become the outcasts of humanity. The scum of the earth. The garbage of the world.

James’ ethical conundrum in turn reminded me of a movie from the 90’s, Gattaca, about a future society where parents can genetically engineer their children to be perfect specimens of humanity, without flaw or defect, handsome, beautiful, able to do great things. Most people go all in. But some opt out. These purists have ‘natural’ children who are less than perfect, even defective. What happens to them? They become the servants, the street-sweepers, the toilet-cleaners, people who do the dirty jobs that the genetically perfect don’t want to do. They live as an under-society in the midst of a ‘great’ society, mostly ignored by the greats. The scum of the earth. The garbage of the world.

I wonder how many Christians today would like it if that’s the way things really were. If we who followed Jesus actually understood that following him meant rejecting the enticing power available from the world. That we didn’t need to play into the power games of the elites. That we were, in fact, supposed to reject the way of power and riches and security in favor of the way of the cross. If we dropped out of our alliances with the empire, alliances that give to us the ability to be rich and secure and safe. If we suddenly became the people everyone else looked down on. Mere servants. If we were mocked and persecuted by those who considered themselves our betters. If we too were seen as the scum of the earth. The garbage of the world.

This may sound as insane to you as Paul’s words may have sounded to the Corinthians. But do you realize that there was a time when such was the lot of the Christian church? I mean, what else can you make of Paul’s description? For the first three centuries of its existence (the most missionally effective in Church history) Christians were despised, and expected to be so. They were the scum of the earth and the garbage of the world, at least in the eyes of the powerful. They were, in those eyes, powerless. And yet…they didn’t feel that way. They knew that despite what the world thought they were in fact powerful. They knew that, as Paul had written earlier in his letter, their foolishness was wiser than human wisdom, and their weakness was stronger than human strength. That their way, Jesus’ way, was the way. The way that led to glory. The way that enabled them to experience God in the midst of the battle of life and the way that would enable them to reign with him in the life of the age to come. This was enough for them. It didn’t matter what the world thought. It didn’t matter if they lacked the world’s power. It didn’t matter if they were made to serve a world that looked down upon them. In fact, that was what they were called to do. And so, they served it. When the world threatened them with hate, they responded with love. When the world cursed them, they offered blessings in return. When the world spoke harshly to them, they responded with kindness. They were even foolish enough to believe that by doing so, they might win some of the world to their side.

Which, of course, they did.

And therein lies the challenge and impotence of the Church today. Certainly in America in the days that are upon us.

For the problem today is that so many in the Church prefer the way of the Corinthians. They crave the ‘synapse,’ the worldly enhancements, that can make them more than mere servants. Don’t believe me? Just turn on the news and you will see it happening. Christians aligning themselves with politicians who promise power, even when doing so means having to ignore just about everything that is true to Jesus. Willing to defend racism, hate, lies, bullying, and misogyny. Willing to overlook, even to deny, gross abuses of power that threaten all that is best about the society they live in. Willing to overlook evidence of such abuse, even when it is as plain as the noses on their faces. Willing to throw away the foolishness of God which is wiser than human wisdom, and the strength of God which is stronger than human strength, to gain the favor of a cruel and brutish king. Willing, for God’s sake, to forsake the call to love and to bless, and instead use the world’s power to crush anyone and everyone who offers so much as a hint of a rumor of a whisper of a threat against them. Willing to classify others as the scum of the earth and the garbage of the world, and to promote policies that put such scum and garbage in their place.

I think this is what bothers me so much about the Trumpian times we live in. I’m not at all thrilled that someone such as he is President. But that shouldn’t really surprise me. A fallen world, you see, will act like a fallen world. Power hungry men and women will from time to time seize the reigns and do terrible, cruel, and heartless things. The Church should of course speak out against such things, should live out an alternative existence that points to another way, but that we should have to should not surprise us at all. Such has always been the way of the fallen world and the calling of the Church within it.

But what does surprise me – although perhaps even this shouldn’t – is when people who are supposed to be following Jesus, who are supposed to be like Paul, who are supposed to live an alternative existence in a mad, mad world, become the supporters and defenders of the madmen who run it.

Something like that was what cut Paul so deeply, what led him to respond to the Corinthians as he did. He saw them beginning a journey that would not end well, and so reminded them of their calling: they were not to live as the ‘wise’ of the world, but as fools. Fools who knew the value of following Jesus, who knew the strength of what the world perceives to be weakness. Fools who understood that to do so was the only way.

But alas, it seems that in today’s Christian world, many have chosen to be fools no more.

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

Jesus Plus People

‘I want to be where the people are’ – Ariel the Little Mermaid

‘I may not know much about God. But I have to say we built a pretty nice cage for him’ – Homer Simpson

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the idolatry of buildings. My wife and I have been binge watching shows on Netflix like Tiny House Nation and Cabins in the Wild. One of the things about Netflix is that when you watch something, you automatically get a slew of recommendations about what to watch next. It comes out under a ‘because you watched,’ heading. Because you watched Tiny House Nation, you might be interested in these shows. ‘These shows’ however, rarely have anything to do with downsizing, or spending time in the great outdoors. I’ve noticed that most of them are about grand designs. Building huge and amazing dwellings in which to live and pamper yourself. Just perusing the titles of these recommended shows gives one the impression that the greatest thing you could ever do is build a grand monument, a place to pour all your money into, a place to make the very essence of your life.

In other words, a god.

This is of course bad enough. But then I get to thinking about church. As a pastor, I live and work in the shadow of a large church building, as many pastors do. There’s nothing really wrong with having a church building, I suppose, but every once in a while I think about how much money it costs to run one. I also think about the reactions I and other pastors get whenever we talk about changing one, or maybe leaving one behind. I mean, I get the whole idea of sentimental attachment to a place, but sometimes it seems as if the most important thing about church is the building. There is some evidence to support that. Studies have shown, over and again, that most faith communities spend far more money on their facilities than they do on mission.

And that doesn’t seem right, does it?

Oh, I know what some of you are thinking. ‘But we have to have a building! How else can we have a church?’ That’s the rationalization we offer to justify ourselves. Trouble is, such thinking runs counter to the whole idea of what church is, or at least what Jesus envisioned church to be.

Jesus experienced church differently. I am currently reading James Martin’s wonderful book Jesus, in which he recounts his visit to the Holy Land. There is much to wonder at in his story. But one thing really hit me. In recounting his visit to Nazareth, the town where Jesus spent the vast majority of his first 30 years (other than the time he spent as a refugee in Egypt), Martin notes that the synagogue building in Nazareth dates to the 4th century. No one has ever found one that dates back to the time of Jesus. In fact, it is unlikely that there was one in the time of Jesus, because towns as small as Nazareth did not generally have synagogue buildings.

And yet we know that Jesus taught in the synagogue in Nazareth. It’s right there in Luke 4 (go ahead, look it up). So it must be the case that archeologists just haven’t discovered it yet. Someday it will turn up.

Such is the power of a preconceived notion. We have been conditioned to picture a building when we think of a church or synagogue. And so, when Jesus preached at the synagogue, we conclude that he must have been standing in one.

But for Jesus, and other first century Jews, synagogue was not a building. It was an assembly of people who gathered to worship God. You didn’t need a building to have a synagogue, all you needed was God plus people.

The synagogue in Nazareth was in all likelihood just that, a gathering of God plus people. A gathering that met, perhaps, in the town square – or better still on a hillside. Nazareth was (and is) a city on a hill, so it is easy to imagine Jesus and his fellow worshipers sitting on the hillside on the Sabbath, listening to the scriptures, praying with one another, listening to the Rabbi’s teaching, even discussing the message and asking questions (interactive learning was big in first century synagogue life). The people would have felt the breezes on their faces and the sun on their backs as they united in their worship of Yahweh.

That’s most likely how we should envision Jesus experiencing church, at least for the first 30 years of his life. Other than the occasional pilgrimage to the Temple in Jerusalem, Jesus worshipped and gathered with God’s people, not in a building, but in the great outdoors. He didn’t need a building. He just needed God and his community.

Jesus didn’t stay in Nazareth however, and once his itinerant ministry began in earnest, he visited many towns and preached in many synagogues. Many of these did have buildings no doubt (although perhaps some did not). That he preached in buildings indicates that there is nothing inherently wrong about having one. But the fact that Jesus did not preach exclusively in buildings should tell us something. In fact, most of Jesus’ teaching took place outside of buildings: on hillsides, on a boat, at the seashore, along the road, in gardens, around dinner tables, and in people’s homes. Even when Jesus taught at the Temple in Jerusalem, he did so in the porticoes and on the Temple steps, the places where people gathered for informal discussions and learning. Jesus didn’t care too much about the place of worship. He just wanted to be where the people were. One place was as good as another for church. All anyone needed to have church was Jesus plus people.

This is not just how Jesus experienced church. It was his vision for the Church. When the Gospel writers wrote of Jesus ‘building his church’ the word they used for church was Ekklesia. Ekklesia does not refer to a building or network of buildings. It means assembly, or gathering. It is the same concept as the synagogue –a gathering of people who worship God through the study of scripture, prayer, learning and discussion. You don’t need a building to have Ekklesia, any more than you needed one for a synagogue. In the early days of the church, followers of Jesus understood this. If you flip through the pages of Acts, you will find Jesus’ followers worshipping in homes, lecture halls, porticoes, steps, ships and riversides. The early followers of Jesus were flexible, and understood that as a result of Jesus’ saving work, you didn’t need a Temple. Everywhere was a holy place. All you needed was Jesus plus people.

I wonder how the followers of Jesus ever lost their way on that one. I suppose that’s a long tale that weaves its way through history. But the bottom line is that today, so many have lost their way. The word church is synonymous with a building. Church has therefore become an inflexible, stationary sort of enterprise. We pour our money, not into reaching people for Jesus, but in upgrading our facilities. We no longer go where the people are. We wait for them to come to us.

It truly is amazing. Jesus began his church experiences out in the open, with people all around him, visible for all to see, under the canopy of God’s blue sky. But we no longer do things like that. We don’t enjoy God’s creation when we worship. We no longer go where the people are to pray and read and discuss. We hide ourselves behind walls. Walls! And then we wonder why people don’t come inside of them.

Maybe it’s time we got back to Jesus, to his experience and vision. Maybe it’s time to move out of our buildings. Into the community. Onto the hillsides. Maybe it’s time to worship God outdoors, with the sun and wind in our faces. Or under the stars on clear nights, where we can take in the wonder of creation. Or in the coffee shops, libraries, diners, town squares, front porches, riversides, and other out in the open places. Maybe it’s time to act on the Biblical truth that church isn’t a building you maintain. It’s a gathering. It’s a lifestyle. And it is most effective when it is practiced outside the cages we have built for God. It is most effective when it is practiced where the people are.

All you need for church is Jesus plus people. Most of the time, the building just gets in the way.

Maybe it’s time we remembered that.

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

Dear Mr. President: A Letter of Faith, Love, and Resistance

Dear Mr. President,

I think I owe you an apology.

For the past few years, I have paid close attention to all you say and do. I have done so because so much of what you say and do scares me. I have been fearful for the safety of people I care about, both those I know and those I don’t know. I have been concerned that much of what you say and do will bring harm to them. I have not been wrong in this, nor have I been wrong to speak out against your cruel policies and hateful rhetoric. But somewhere along the way I forgot something important.

I forgot about you.

I have basically not cared for you as a person, as a human being made in the image of God. My Christian faith teaches me to do so, but I have allowed myself to become so angry over what you have been saying and doing that I have forgotten to see you as such. In this I have sinned, against God and against you. I have asked God to forgive me, and now I ask you to do the same. I doubt you will ever see this letter, but if you do I hope you will accept it as both an apology and expression of a sincere desire to, in the words of scripture, speak the truth to you in love.

I fear I am not alone in having neglected your well-being. Many of the professing Christians who support you have done the same. I think here of the ones who continuously express their support for you, the Christian leaders and pastors who stand in your innermost councils, the ones who have prayed over you and called you ‘God’s anointed.’ Mr. President, these men and women have misled you. They are court prophets and false teachers, wolves in sheep’s clothing who preach a false Gospel. The Bible tells stories of sycophantic false prophets who tell kings exactly what they want to hear, and I fear that such as these have surrounded you. Theirs is an understanding of God and the Christian faith that is completely at odds with the scriptures. Moreover, I fear that many of them are simply using you. They see you as someone who can give them what they want, e.g., conservatives on the Supreme Court, the end to legal abortion, the preservation of their brand of religious liberty, a theocratic nationalist state. In order to gain these things, they have treated you like a god. They have showered praise upon you. They have given you ‘mulligans’ for conduct they have long preached against. They have engaged in all sorts of theological gymnastics to uphold you in everything you say and do.

But in all this they have failed to do one thing: tell the truth. They have failed to tell you who God is and what God wants. They have failed to tell you the Gospel. And in this failure, they have, I am afraid, led you farther and farther away from the one you need most of all: Jesus.

And so Mr. President, I would like the opportunity to tell you the truth. Because truth matters. Not just for its own sake, but for yours.

It starts with this: God loves you. He doesn’t love you for the things you have done. He doesn’t love you for being a successful businessman or for winning the presidency. He doesn’t love you because you draw big crowds at rallies. He loves you because he is love. God loves us all, limitlessly and without condition. From the foundations of eternity, before you or I or anything else existed, he looked down the corridors of time, saw all the bad things you and I would ever do (imagine the worst thing you have ever done – yes, God saw that) and loved us anyway. He saw us in all our sin, separated from him, and could not bear the thought of spending eternity without us. And so, in the councils of the Holy Trinity, of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, a plan of action was determined. God decided to come to us in the person of the Son, Jesus. He decided to make atonement for our sins at the Cross and restore us to relationship with Himself. I am sure you know John 3:16: ‘For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him might not perish, but have eternal life.’ You are part of the ‘world,’ Mr. President. God loved you so much that he sent Jesus to die for you. That’s how much he loves you. That’s how much you matter to him. That’s how much he longs for you to be in his arms. Mr. President, God wants to be the center of your life.

But for him to be that, you must surrender to him. Specifically, the Bible tells us that we need to repent. You have famously said that you don’t feel the need to ask God for forgiveness. Mr. President, we all need to do that. The Bible tells us that ‘all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God’ (Romans 3:23). God is perfect and holy, and none of us measure up to his glorious standard. But he has provided a way for us to be holy, to be cleansed of the sin that separates us from him, by confessing our sins and embracing the gift of Jesus. Mr. President, I don’t know if the Christian pastors and leaders around you have told you this, but this is something you need to do. If you want a relationship with the God who loves you, both now and in eternity, you need to confess your sins. You need to ask for forgiveness. You need to turn to the cross and invite Jesus into your life to be your Savior.

I pray with all my heart that you will do this. But there is more. The Gospel is not lip service. In addition to inviting Jesus into your life to be your Savior, you also need to embrace him as your Lord. Jesus never asked anyone to be a mere believer. He called us to be disciples. A disciple is someone who seeks to be like their Master. For Christians, this means striving to live like Jesus. Not that any of us will ever do that perfectly (Lord knows I don’t). But we need to work at it. We need to do our best to imitate Jesus and care about the things he cares about. To stand up for the people and issues that matter to him.

In this, Mr. President, your Christian advisors and supporters have, at least from what I can see, deeply failed you.

There is much they have not told you. They have not told you, or at least so it would seem, that Jesus would not condone the building of walls to prevent people fleeing for their lives from finding sanctuary. They have not told you that Jesus himself was a refugee (Matthew 2:13-15). They have not told you that the way you treat those seeking asylum, the strangers and sojourners in our midst, is not only the way we treat him but also the basis on which we will one day be judged (see, Matthew 25:31-46). They have not told you that God is affronted when you separate children from their parents. They have not told you that God cannot abide racism or hatred of the other. They have not challenged your hateful words, when you have demeaned black and brown life. They have not told you that Jesus is about love and hope, not hate and fear, and that your use of the latter to advance your political career both devalues human life and runs contrary to the Gospel of Jesus. They have not told you the Parable of the Rich Fool from Luke 12, the one that teaches that our lives do not consist in an abundance of possessions, nor have they told you of Jesus’ love and affinity for the poor, of the Bible’s insistence that we care for the weak and marginalized. They have not told you that bullying and name calling is contrary to Jesus’ way, that Jesus himself said that calling someone a fool, let alone ‘human scum,’ or ‘enemy of the people,’ or ‘bad hombres’ or other racial epithets, puts one in danger of hellfire (Matthew 5:22). They have not told you that when you label others with such names, you put their lives in danger and demean the image of God within them. They have not told you that followers of Jesus are called to be peacemakers (Matthew 5:9), not people who tear up peace treaties without giving a second thought to how to replace them. They have not told you that followers of Jesus walk in the way of nonviolence and peace; they do not encourage their supporters to beat up or otherwise harm their political enemies and critics. They have not told you that to be pro-life is not merely to oppose abortion, but to work to protect and preserve life from womb to tomb. They have not told you that Jesus called his followers to be servants, not abusive autocrats (Mark 10:42-45). And they have not told you that Jesus was a respecter of women, not someone who viciously attacks women the way that you have persistently done.

Mr. President, I know that may sound a little harsh. I hope you believe me when I say that I do not mention any of this out of anger or hatred for you. I mention it out of love for you. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t get a warm, fuzzy feeling in my chest when I think about you and the things you have done. I refer here to agape love, the love Jesus commanded us to have for everyone, the love that seeks what is best for people, whether they deserve it or not. Mr. President, I write all of this to you out of that spirit of love, because it is my sincerest hope that you will repent and turn to Jesus. Repentance in the Bible means that you turn around, that you stop moving in the direction you are heading and start traveling the other way. It is my deepest hope to see you do this. To see you stop walking in the way of fear and hate, and start walking in the way of hope and love. I long to see the day when you turn and follow Jesus, the day when I can call you, not just ‘Mr. President,’ but ‘brother.’

This is what I hope for. That you will come out of the darkness and into Christ’s marvelous light. Until that day comes, I will continue to peaceably speak out against any and all hatred and cruelty you speak, do, or propose. I will continue to be a prophetic voice for truth and the Kingdom of God. I will continue to do what the false prophets around you won’t. But I hope you know that even as I do so, I will be longing for the day when you will listen to the call of Jesus and walk in his way. If and when that day comes, I will rejoice and be glad.

Mr. President, I wish you life, health, and peace. But most of all, I wish you Jesus.

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent D. Miller

Give Me Jesus

‘Yes, everything else is worthless when compared with the infinite value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have discarded everything else, counting it all as garbage, so that I could gain Christ and become one with him’

– Paul the Apostle, Philippians 3:8-9(a)

Some days I feel like Zacchaeus.

For you who are church people, you know who that is. ‘Zacchaeus was a wee little man, and a wee little man was he,’ as the old Sunday School song goes. For others, Zacchaeus was, well, a wee little man. He was the vertically challenged tax collector whose story is told in the 19th chapter of Luke’s Gospel. There we learn that he was the chief tax collector in the city of Jericho, a plum job if there ever was one. Jericho was one of the wealthiest cities in Judea, a place where a chief tax collector could make a killing by running what was essentially a pyramid scheme. Zacchaeus would hire junior tax collectors to collect sales, customs, and other taxes, knowing in advance how much he was required to hand over to the Romans. This left him free to collect enough to line the pockets of both his subordinates and himself (especially himself). Zacchaeus worked this system very well, and as a result had become very rich. Yes, it was good to be chief tax collector in Jericho.

But to become rich, Zacchaeus had sold out. He was a Jewish man whose name meant ‘righteous one.’ Obviously, his parents had high hopes for him. But he had exchanged those hopes for a lucrative career in collaboration with the Romans. I imagine he knew this: that he had been meant for something better, a life of meaning and holiness and the pursuit of God. But hey, this was the real world, right? If you wanted to make it there, you had to make compromises. Give up your idealistic dreams. Focus on what was in front of you. Make the best use of what the world gives you. And the world, it turned out, gave him a lot: a nice house, servants, and wealth enough to keep him in the lap of luxury for the rest of his life.

Some days, he could almost make himself forget that he was a sellout.

But then came the day when he could do so no longer. The day when Jesus came to town. Zacchaeus had obviously heard about Jesus. The Rabbi from Nazareth who had been traversing the Judean countryside, challenging Israel to live as God intended, delivering people from whatever bondage they had fallen into, healing people’s bodies, minds, and hearts. Jesus had been offering everyone the opportunity to fulfill their God-given potential and to experience life with God the way it was meant to be. The stories of Jesus were the kinds of things that made a man think of both who he was and what he could become. Such thinking provoked a crisis in Zacchaeus’ life. It made it harder to forget what he had become. It made him think that there was more available than life as a sellout.

And so, Zacchaeus thought, maybe there was. Maybe Jesus could give him what he had reportedly given to others. New life. New hope. A fresh start. Life with God as it was meant to be experienced. He had to find out. He had to see Jesus. There was only one problem: Zacchaeus was short (micros in Greek) and as Jesus made his way into the city, he was surrounded by groupies. Poor Zacchaeus couldn’t see over them. Zacchaeus knew that to see Jesus, he would need to think creatively. Up ahead, he saw a sycamore tree, and off he went. He cut Jesus and the crowd off at the pass and scurried up the tree. It may have been a creative solution to his problem, but it was also a ridiculous and undignified thing to do, a man of his stature and standing, running and climbing a tree. But Zacchaeus had summoned up the courage to do it, and it paid off. You can read the rest of the story in Luke 19:1-10, but the gist of it is this: Jesus found him and offered him a fresh start, which Zacchaeus eagerly accepted, embracing life the way God meant it to be experienced.

You may wonder why I feel like Zacchaeus some days. After all, I’m not a tax collector. I don’t run a pyramid scheme. I’ve never defrauded anyone. I’m not short. And those of you who know me probably don’t think of me as a sellout (at least I don’t think you do). But some days, I feel like one. As the years have ticked by, I have increasingly felt that my life as a pastor in the American church is one of compromise. Truth be told, I’m kind of sick of the compromise (for those in the church I serve, this is not a resignation letter – it’s a call to something deeper, so read on). Actually, and I know this sounds terrible, I’m sick of Christianity. I’m sick of religion. Institutional church. Denominationalism. Stone buildings and stained glass idolatries. I’m sick of the syncretism we pass off as the Christian faith, the façade that is actually a mixture of nationalism, patriotism, militarism, consumerism, selfishness, and apathy all tossed in a bowl and then glazed over with a thin veneer of Jesus. I’m sick of playing the game that pretends all of that is okay just so that I can collect a paycheck. It’s not okay. It’s all a farce. There is so much more available. So much more that Jesus offers. So much more to living the way that God intended.

I won’t to be a sellout any longer. I want to see Jesus.

That’s why, some days, I feel like Zacchaeus. I feel a real kinship with him. Just this morning, as I was walking my dog Corky, looking at the trees that line the streets of Collingswood, I imagined myself sitting with Zacchaeus in that sycamore tree. There we were, together, sick of everything we had become a part of, longing for something more, singing the words of the old hymn:

In the morning when I rise
In the morning when I rise
In the morning when I rise, give me Jesus
Give me Jesus
Give me Jesus
You can have all of this world
Give me Jesus

Oh how I want Jesus. I don’t want anything else. Keep your stained glass, your stone, your denomination, your religion. Keep your well-constructed worship services that aim to please a consumer church. You can have it all. The only thing I want from here on out is Christ. May God grant me – and all of us – the creativity and courage to be like Zacchaeus, to be every bit as undignified and ridiculous as he was in the quest to get to Jesus.

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Pastor Brent

Forgiveness

I’ve been trying to get down to the heart of the matter, but my will gets weak, and my thoughts seem to scatter – but I think it’s about forgiveness.

Don Henley

This past Sunday, I preached a sermon on forgiveness. The local church I serve has been studying the Apostle’s Creed and we had come to the line: ‘we believe in the forgiveness of sins.’ The timing was perfect, as the topic of forgiveness had been in the news quite a bit the previous two weeks. There had been a debate raging over whether, in certain circumstances, it is ever appropriate to forgive (I will touch on the cause of that debate near the end of this post). For me, the answer to that was easy. Forgiveness, for the follower of Jesus, is simply not an option. And so, I shared with the congregation four reasons why I believe this to be so. Even now, post-sermon, I still feel the need to share my thoughts about it. And so in this post I will. Readers who were in the service this Sunday will find nothing new here. I encourage you to read it anyway, to let it really sink in, because for Christians, forgiveness truly is, as Don Henley says, ‘the heart of the matter.’ For everyone else, well, I present my thoughts to you in the hope that they will show you the importance of forgiveness as well, even when, and maybe especially when, it is difficult to extend.

First, followers of Jesus need to forgive because God is a God of forgiveness. We see this all over the Bible, in both the Old and New Testaments. Some people think God is rather unforgiving in the Old Testament. I remember an episode of Dharma and Greg in which Dharma described the Bible this way: ‘Old Testament – God is wrath. New Testamant – God is love.’ But God has always been a loving, forgiving God. People were always messing up in Old Testament times, from Abraham to David to Hezekiah to the nation of Israel as a whole, and God was always willing to forgive them, to separate their sins from them ‘as far as the east is from the west,’ and to cast them to the bottom of the ocean floor (Psalm 103:12; Micah 7:19). This is who God is, a pardoning God of chesed (steadfast) love. To be fair to Dharma, this became clearer once humankind was given the full revelation of God in Jesus. Jesus told stories like the Parable of the Prodigal Son. He forgave the woman caught in adultery. And he offered forgiveness to the entire world at the cross – even those who crucified him. Remember his words: ‘Father forgive them, they know not what they do.’ Don Henley sang, ‘I think it’s about forgiveness, even if you don’t love me.’ That’s the way God forgives. He forgives even those who spit upon and crucify him. That is a powerful reason to be forgiving. I mean, if God forgives like that, who do we think we are to do otherwise?

The second reason Jesus followers need to forgive is related: we have been forgiven. Jesus once told a story about a man who owed a debt he could not possibly pay (Matthew 18:21-35). He owed millions and he made minimum wage. At first, his master dealt with him as the world would: ordering that he and his family be sold into slavery. Isn’t that the way of the world? Instead of forgiving, you get even. But then, when the debtor begged for mercy, the Master relented, and decided to act like God. He not only revoked the prison sentence, he forgave the debt. But then the ungrateful little booger ran out and tossed someone else in prison for owing him a mere bag of shells. When the King found out, he called the man ‘an evil servant,’ pointed out his hypocrisy, and tossed him into jail. The story ends with one of the most ominous lines of scripture: ‘That’s what my heavenly Father will do to you if you refuse to forgive your brothers and sisters from the heart.’ Ouch. The lesson is clear: God has forgiven us for the things we have done. It is the height of ingratitude not to forgive others. God considers it a slap in the face. And so, followers of Jesus have no choice: we forgive others because we have been forgiven by God.

Now, I understand that if you aren’t a follower of Jesus, those first two reasons may not mean much to you. I would love for you to accept that there is a God who loves and forgives, and that you should forgive others out of gratitude for grace. But even if you aren’t sold on that, I really hope you will consider this: we need to forgive because to do otherwise is disastrous. Two parts here. First, when we fail to forgive, we bring disaster upon ourselves. Let me ask, when you refuse to forgive someone, who gets hurt most? That’s right. You do. Don Henley sang, ‘there are people in your life, who’ve come and gone. They’ve let you down. You know they’ve hurt your pride. You better put it all behind you baby, ’cause life moves on. If you keep carrying that anger, it will eat you up inside.’ Nelson Mandela famously said that harboring resentment is like drinking poison and expecting your enemies to die. You really don’t want to be one of those people who go through life nursing grudges, carrying bitterness and anger around in your heart. When you do that, you just allow the people who hurt you to go on hurting you. Lewis Smedes said that when you forgive, you set a prisoner free, and discover that the prisoner was you.

It is equally true that when we fail to forgive, we spread disaster all around us. Gandhi said, ‘an eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind.’ In his sermon, Loving your Enemies, Martin Luther King spoke of driving with his brother A.D. in Chatanooga. The oncoming drivers were refusing to dim their high beams. A.D. got fed up and said, ‘The next car that refuses to dim their lights, I’m going to fail to dim mine!’ Dr. King said, ‘Oh no! Don’t do that…it will end up in mutual destruction for all!’ He went on to explain that this was the trouble with history, that as people moved up the ‘highway of history,’ so many have looked at others who refused to dim the lights, and decided to refuse to dim theirs. He said that if somebody didn’t have enough sense to turn on the ‘dim and beautiful and powerful lights of love in the world,’ everyone would be destroyed. He ached for someone to have ‘sense enough and morality enough to cut off the chain of hate.’ This is another powerful reason to forgive: we need to forgive because forgiveness is the only thing that can break the chain of hate and replace it with the freedom to love.

Which takes me to the final reason why I believe we must forgive: because forgiveness is beautiful. It is here that we turn to the uproar that has recently taken place over the issue of forgiveness. By now, I am sure you have seen, or at least heard, of what happened at the sentencing of Amber Guyger, the white Dallas police officer who entered the wrong apartment and shot Botham Jean, an unarmed black man in his own home. It was a senseless tragedy that exacerbated racial tensions and fueled legitimate concerns about how dangerous it is to be black in America. As I pointed out to my congregation this past Sunday, if you don’t understand those concerns, it’s likely because you have been privileged enough not to have to think about them. No person of color, and no person of any color who loves a person of color, enjoys such a privilege.

At the sentencing, there were two important voices. The first was the voice of Allison Jean, Botham’s mother, who spoke of racial injustice, in both the case and the culture, and of the need to fight against such injustice. She is 100% right. There is great racial injustice in this country (and there was in that case) and we must find ways to deal with and overcome it. The second voice was Brandt Jean’s, Botham’s brother, and unless you’ve been living under a rock, you know what he did. He dimmed the lights. Tearfully, he forgave his brother’s killer. He told her that he loved her and that he wanted what was best for her. That he hoped she’d give her life to Christ. And then, he asked if he could give her a hug. The judge said yes, and as he stepped down and moved toward her, her brother’s killer ran into his arms.

Some people didn’t like that. They said Brandt didn’t have the right to do it. That forgiveness was being exalted over justice. Now let me be clear: justice matters, and the way the story broke did suggest that for some, it didn’t (it took several days for anyone to pay serious attention to the words of Allison Jean). And sadly, there are some whites who will use Brandt’s willingness to forgive as an excuse to ignore racial injustice entirely. They should be ashamed of themselves. That anyone did and will react that way to the embrace in that courtroom only proves that the fight for justice is far from over, and that we all have work to do.

But as followers of Jesus, how can we not rejoice at the sight of grace? Of course we need to work for justice. But we are still people of forgiveness. Because forgiveness is beautiful.

And you know what? It is also powerful. An eye for an eye will make the world blind. But forgiveness and enemy love, well, listen to Frederick Buechner: ‘the love for equals is a human thing – of friend for friend, brother for brother. It is to love what is loving and lovely. The world smiles. The love for the less fortunate is a beautiful thing – the love for those who suffer, for those who are poor, the sick, the failures, the unlovely. This is compassion, and it touches the heart of the world. The love for the more fortunate is a rare thing – to love those who succeed where we fail, to rejoice without envy with those who rejoice, the love of the poor for the rich, of the black man for the white man. The world is always bewildered by its saints. And then there is the love for the enemy – love for the one who does not love you but mocks, threatens and inflicts pain. The tortured’s love for the torturer. This is God’s love. It conquers the world.’

The world will continue to debate the embrace between Amber Guyger and Brandt Jean. Many will never understand it. But when I think about so much of what plagues our world today, and struggle to get down to the heart of the matter, of what will really make a difference, I think it’s about forgiveness. And I say that not just because Don Henley thinks so. I say it because Jesus thinks so. Followers of Jesus believe in a lot of things, justice included. But we can never forget that we also believe in the forgiveness of sins.

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

Don Henley quotes are taken from his song, The Heart of the Matter.

Martin Luther King quotes taken from his sermon, Loving Your Enemies.

Frederick Buchner quote is from his book, The Magnificent Defeat.

Apple Pie Hill

‘Direct your children on the right path, and when they are older, they will not leave it’ – Proverbs 22:6 (NLT)

This past Sunday our church’s Band of Brothers (an intergenerational group for guys) took a hike along the Batona trail in the South Jersey Pine Barrens. Our destination was a fire tower (pictured above) atop ‘Apple Pie Hill.’ In our company of men were several adults and boys at various stages along the masculine journey, among them my eight year old son Caleb.

Caleb is an adventurer if there ever was one. He is pure energy, always ready to take on the world. A force to be reckoned with. A few months back he attended a week long parkour camp during the hottest week of summer. His class met in an old a warehouse with no air-conditioning, a real oven. Each night, after a grueling eight hour day, he bounced in the front door and shouted, ‘Dad, let’s go play soccer!’ That’s Caleb. I go to the gym mainly for two purposes: (1) so I can eat more ice cream; and (2) so I can keep up with my son.

We had a great time on the hike, talking and sharing as guys do, and eventually arrived at our destination: Apple Pie Hill. My heart skipped a beat when I saw the tower. It was much taller than I thought it would be, and the stairwells were open – no caging or fencing. True confession time: I’m more than a little afraid of heights. I didn’t used to be. When I was a kid one of my favorite games was ‘what’s the tallest thing I can jump off of without getting seriously hurt’ (answer – it’s a house, and trust me, you’re better off not finding that our for yourself). But as I’ve aged I’ve developed a sense of vertigo. Like Jimmy Stewart in a Hitchcock film, I freeze when it comes to heights. But there she was, Apple Pie Hill, complete with the tower that everyone, including Caleb, wanted to climb. I would just have to man up and give it a try.

We could only go up in groups of four, and Caleb and I were in the first group. Two stairwells up my concerns began to mount. The openings on the sides of the stairwells were even bigger up close, certainly big enough for an eight year old to fall through if he became careless. In spite of my own fears, my concern, at least at the conscious level, was all for Caleb, and an event in the not too distant past wasn’t helping matters. A few months earlier, Band of Brothers had gone canoeing in these same pine barrens. The river was a fast, and at one point our canoe flipped. I popped up out of the water nicely, but Caleb popped up under the canoe. He was safe, but for two seconds, I could not find him. It is amazing what goes through a parent’s mind in such a scenario. Those were without a doubt the scariest two seconds of my life. And now here I was, climbing a tower overlooking those same barrens, filled with Jimmy Stewart-esque visions of my son falling through one of those openings. There was no doubt in my mind: this was too risky. I told Caleb as much, and as soon as I did, his bravery vanished. It’s frightening for a boy to see his Dad frightened. He agreed that we should go back down. We did. We had only made it up three of the eight or so staircases that led to the top of the tower on Apple Pie Hill.

Let me ask you: what do you imagine when you hear the word, ‘deflated?’ A balloon that’s lost its air? A blown out tire? For the rest of my life, whenever I hear ‘deflated,’ I will picture my eight year old son sitting on the ground at the base of the tower on Apple Pie Hill. He watched as other groups of four made their way up the tower and felt like a failure. I tried to explain things to him. I said this was like those signs at the amusement park that say you have to be ‘this tall’ to go on the ride. We were just being responsible. That sort of thing. I foolishly thought he would understand. He did not. As I watched Caleb sit in his frustration and failure, he almost appeared to shrink in size.

I struggled for a few minutes. What should I do? Was it too risky to climb that tower with Caleb? Was the fear I felt for him just a projection of my own? I almost convinced myself that the risk of falling was too great. But then it hit me: there are some things more dangerous than the risk of falling. There is the risk of a boy learning that he doesn’t measure up. John Eldredge says that the primary question every young man asks, and needs his father or a father figure to answer, is ‘do I have what it takes?’ There are crucial moments when a young man needs to hear his Dad affirm that he does. If this happens, he will grow to be a man. If it doesn’t, he may very well limp through life as something less.

Caleb was asking himself that question. More to the point, he was asking me. And suddenly I knew that I was failing him. I knew, as well as I’d ever known anything, that there was only one thing for me to do. I had to man up, for real this time, and lead Caleb up that tower.

So up we went. I won’t say I wasn’t a little scared. I was. But I knew what was at stake. And you know what? No one died. We, along with two other young boys asking similar questions of themselves, made it to the top. The views were spectacular, all the more so for what we had overcome to enjoy them. The ranger at the top showed us amazing pictures taken at night that made it seem that from that tower you could reach out and touch the Harvest Moon and stars. The look on Caleb’s face was priceless (the other boys too). When we made it back down there were high fives all around. No conqueror of Mount Everest has ever been more proud. Caleb looked at me and said, ‘Dad, this is the best day ever!’ and I could see in his eyes that he knew the answer to his question.

Fathers have a sacred trust. In his beautiful novel, Chasing Fireflies, Charles Martin writes about the importance of fathers in the lives of their sons: ‘I know this about boys: we are all born with a dad-sized hole in the center of our chest. Our dads either fill it with themselves, or as we grow into men and start to feel the emptiness, we medicate it with other stuff.’ Which is why we must keep the trust that has been given us. Our boys lives depend on it. This will require that we man up. That we overcome our fears. That we deal with the wounds we ourselves have experienced. We need to do this so that, when the important moments come (and they come every day) we will be able to fill the hearts of our boys, and show them that they have what it takes.

I shudder to think what might have happened to Caleb’s heart had I failed to see what was happening within it at the base of that tower. I hope that in the future, I will more quickly realize what is at stake. I pray that every time my son’s heart is on the line, I will have the courage to do what is necessary. And I pray that every man out there who is reading this, and every woman too for that matter, will do the same, for both our sons, and the sons around us.

Because every boy needs someone to show them they have what it takes. Every father needs to show every son the way to the top of Apple Pie Hill.

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

The Gospel is Political

‘You are the light of the world, like a city on a hilltop that cannot be hidden.‘ Matthew 5:14 (NLT)

A number of years ago I saw a movie about life in South Africa. I can’t remember which movie, but I will never forget one scene. In a time of national upheaval, a white pastor took to his pulpit and spoke against apartheid. The result was predictable. Most of his white congregation walked out. The scene is a classic example of why many pastors feel the need to steer clear of political or social issues, no matter how compelling they may be. From time immemorial, pastors have received such advice. In South Africa. In antebellum America. During the Civil Rights movement. In Nazi Germany. The affairs of state belong to the state. Pastors need to ‘stay in their lane.’ ‘The Gospel,’ they say, ‘has nothing to do with politics.’

There is only one problem with that line of reasoning: the Gospel has everything to do with politics. The Gospel is, by its very nature, political.

Let me explain.

Let’s begin with a simple question: what is the Gospel? Many Christians call it the Good News of Salvation through Jesus Christ, and they are of course right. But those who define it as such often limit ‘salvation’ to what happens after death. The Gospel, for many Christians, is the Good News that, because of Jesus, you get to go to heaven when you die. But even the most cursory reading of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John (aka the Gospels), reveals that Jesus’ Gospel is concerned with far more than one’s eternal destination. Jesus’ Gospel is deeply invested, for example, in providing assistance to the poor, caring for the sick, welcoming the stranger, extending hospitality to the marginalized and oppressed, and generally speaking, standing up for justice and fairness in their absence. All of this is included in Jesus’ salvation message. Jesus is concerned for this world, not just the one that is to come.

The problem, therefore, in defining the ‘Gospel as the Good News of Salvation…’ is that in many Christian circles, the concept of salvation has been effectively removed from the present concerns of the world. Which is why many, including myself, define the Gospel the way Jesus did, as the Good News of the Kingdom of God (Mark 1:14-15). Defining the Gospel this way is both Biblical and clarifying, but in order to understand the clarification, we need to ask a second question: ‘what is the Kingdom of God?’

Well, this is where I have to warn you, the answer to that one will take a while (sorry, this isn’t a short post). We start with the word, kingdom. Most of the time, when the Bible speaks of a kingdom, it speaks of a political empire – a world power that seeks to dominate and control others. The Bible does not speak highly of such powers. In Daniel 7, just prior to announcing the eventual coming of God’s Kingdom, it describes the prevailing political empires as beasts – monstrous, frightening things that destroy and devour everything in their wake. Throughout the Bible, Babylon, one of Daniel’s four beasts, becomes the quintessential embodiment of political empire. In Revelation, empire (specifically Rome, but symbolically future powers as well) is not only pegged with the ‘beast’ moniker, but also the name, ‘whore of Babylon’ (Revelation 17-18). That’s what the Bible thinks of the world’s empires. It calls them beasts and whores. Satan even claims to have authority over all of them (Luke 4:6). And seriously, who can doubt it?

But there is another way the Bible uses the word ‘kingdom,’ and that is with the phrase, the Kingdom of God. This phrase refers to the kingly reign of God on earth through the life and witness of people who follow God’s Messiah. This Kingdom is very different. It is no devouring beast. It does not seek domination and control. Instead, it follows the way of Calvary Love. It seeks to serve, not to be served. It doesn’t have a power center, a nation, or a capitol. It is a multinational community of people from every nation, tribe, and tongue who follow the path of Jesus. One might wonder whether it should be called a kingdom at all, but God has chosen to do so in order to explicitly set His Reign and Rule over and against the kingdoms of the world. His is the one Kingdom that shall outlast all others (Daniel 7:14).

So what does God’s Kingdom do? How does it manifest itself? How does it exist in the sea of political empire? Simple. Its citizens stand at the crossroads of whatever empire they find themselves in and live out an alternative set of values. And as they do, they by their very existence show the world another way. By living according to the principle of love as opposed to domination, they continuously critique and shame the powers of the world (See, Colossians 2:15). The Kingdom of God, by its very existence, is a prophetic critique of political power, an alternative polis (Greek for city) juxtaposed against the polis of empire. It is a polis on a hill, rising above the kingdoms of the world, shining light for all to see, continuously proclaiming, loudly and clearly, that the ways and methods of empire are wrong, and the ways and methods of Jesus are right.

So, when Jesus announced the Good News (Gospel) of the Kingdom, he was announcing that this alternative polis had come. He was calling people to repent, not just of their personal sins, but of their participation in the ways and methods of empire. The very language Jesus used, kingdom language, was political in nature. Jesus had thrown down the gauntlet before the empires of the world, declaring that a new polis, a new Kingdom, had come. This, by the way, was what made Jesus so threatening to the powers that be. There was a reason why he was ultimately crucified as an enemy of the Roman State. He had been encouraging people to join a movement that proclaimed, loudly and clearly, that Jesus was Lord, and Caesar was not; that the way of empire was wrong, and the way of God’s Kingdom was right.

It is to this alternative kingdom, the Kingdom of God, that the followers of Jesus belong. His followers are therefore citizens of this alternative society, and must live as such. To do so is perilous. It puts us on a collision course with the way of empire. Why? Because, if I may paraphrase Stephen Mattson, sometimes to be a good citizen of God’s Kingdom, you have to be a bad citizen of the empire you live in. Whenever there is a clash of Kingdom values, the call of the Jesus follower is to obey the values of God’s Kingdom over the world’s (Acts 5:29). We must live and act in accordance with the values of Jesus’ Kingdom at all times, shunning the way of domination, control, and violence. Those who follow the way of empire don’t like this.

What this does NOT mean, is that followers of Jesus must withdraw from the world. Jesus did not. Nor did the early church. No, the call of Jesus is to go into the world and proclaim the Kingdom. We do this by our actions, standing at the crossroads of culture and showing the world another way. And we do so with our words. Like the prophets of old, we speak truth to power, pointing away from what is wrong and pointing toward what is right. This always gets messy. But citizens of the Kingdom must speak the truth. Indeed, if we do not speak it, how will anyone ever find their way into the Kingdom? (See, Romans 10:14).

This is how the Gospel is political. Not in the sense that citizens of God’s Kingdom should ever enmesh themselves in the power politics of the world. Indeed, that is precisely what we must avoid – becoming entangled in the affairs and ways of the world make it impossible for us to follow Jesus (2 Timothy 2:4). And not in the sense that we ever align ourselves with governments, politicians, or political parties. But in the sense that we, by our lifestyle, actions, and words prophetically critique the powers of the world. We are to embody a new way of being human, and to challenge the old way at every turn. Yes, we must do so with gentleness and love. But do it we must. Such ‘political action’ is essential to the integrity of the Gospel. Indeed, a gospel that fails to take part in such action is, to borrow Paul’s famous phrase, ‘no gospel at all’ (Galatians 1:7).

And so, that South African pastor was right. When citizens of Jesus’ polis on a hill see the empires behaving as empires do, it is incumbent upon them to both live differently and speak out against what is happening. For example:

When the empire preaches hate – we preach love.

When the empire says war – we say peace.

When the empire acts with cruelty – we promote mercy.

When the empire stirs up fear – we summon up courage.

When the empire preaches exclusion – we preach acceptance.

When the empire builds walls – we build bridges.

When the empire says life is disposable – we say life is sacred.

When the empire protects the interests of the rich – we intercede on behalf of the poor.

When the empire asks us to give allegiance to idols – we give ours to Christ alone.

And, just to put a fine point on it, I think I will add a few things about our empire’s current ‘Emperor.’

When the emperor tears children from the arms of their parents – we say families belong together.

When the emperor puts children in cages – we say set them free.

When the emperor disparages and endangers black and brown lives – we say they matter.

When the emperor demeans women – we stand up for our sisters.

When the emperor says anything, or proposes any policy, that is contrary to the compassionate, loving way of Jesus, the King of our Kingdom, we oppose it, and point people in the direction of another way.

Basically, when the emperor has no clothes – we say so.

That’s what Kingdom citizens do. It’s sure as heck fire what I intend to do. And when the empire and those who follow it complain that I’m getting too political, that I need to ‘stay in my lane’ and be quiet, I’ll just remind them:

The Gospel is political.

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

His Eye is on the Blue Jay

‘That is why I tell you not to worry…Look at the birds. They don’t plant or harvest or store food in barns, for your heavenly Father feeds them. And aren’t you far more valuable to him than they are?‘

– Matthew 6:26 NLT

Today I have been housebound. My wife has jury duty (ugh!), and I am home with the kids (we homeschool). It’s a day off for the kids, but I’ve been trying to get a few things done. Sitting on the front porch with my laptop, my mind drifted back about ten years to an adventure I had on another work at home sort of day. And since this is turning out to be a slow day, I figured I would write about it. I hope it encourages you.

It was a nice day, and I was working at a table beside the sliding glass doors that overlooked our back yard when my dog bolted upright and began barking like crazy. I figured it was a squirrel rummaging through the garbage, but when I looked, I saw instead a baby blue jay. More accurately, a blue jay on the verge of adolescence. It had feathers, but its size and coloring suggested it was too young to be sitting in the shadow of my trash. Obviously, I concluded, the poor little guy had fallen from his nest and needed assistance – and I was just the guy to provide it (I could almost hear the Mighty Mouse theme: ‘here I come to save the day!’). I dialed several bird rescue agencies until I finally connected with a real person. ‘Success,’ I inwardly shouted, only to be put on hold. I hate being put on hold.

With nothing to do but listen to the agency’s cued up New Age music, I decided to use my time productively. It was warm outside, and so I figured the little guy needed a drink. Awkwardly, I cradled the phone between my shoulder and ear, filled a little bowl with water and headed out to play hero. I put the bowl in front of him, but misunderstanding my good intentions, he flapped his fledgling wings, ascended to a mighty altitude of two inches, and fluttered a mere two feet away. He looked at me as if I was out of my mind. Frustrated but undaunted, I went back inside to regroup. ‘Birdseed!’ I thought, ‘That’s the ticket! What bird can resist birdseed?’ Alas, the cupboard was bare of birdseed. But such was my desire to be the Saint Francis of my time that I crumbled some crackers on a plate, called it birdseed, and made a second effort, this time with a fool proof plan. I would corral him so he could not get away, and then make nice with the crackers. There was no way I could fail! The bird would be so happy with me that he would spend the rest of his days singing outside my bedroom window.

There was just one thing I didn’t consider: baby blue jays have mothers.

She didn’t appreciate my noble effort at all. No sir-ee Bob. Oblivious to her presence or even existence, I made my way toward her baby, when – ZOOM – she came out of nowhere, a soaring blue blaze determined to destroy me, sent from the heavens above, careening at the last second just inches above my head. She made a racket that would have frightened Bear Grylls and had a ten foot wing span (OK, maybe not Bear Grylls, and maybe she was smaller than that, but hey, I’m trying to preserve my dignity here). I ran back to the shelter of the house, cracker crumbs trailing behind me, the stink of failure all over me, shouting all sorts of things like – well, this is a faith blog so let’s leave it there. All the while desperately endeavoring to keep the phone in its precarious place betwixt my neck and shoulder (which at least provided theme music for the event – life should always have theme music, don’t you think?).

It was in the midst of this donnybrook of man verses bird that I heard an understandably perplexed and somewhat frightened voice: ‘This is [whoever the heck she was]. Can I help you?’

Embarrassed, I attempted to explain myself. This was difficult, what with Mama blue jay swooping back and forth over the patio and roaring like a pterodactyl. She was feeling pretty strong let me tell you. It was as if her activity was meant to serve a dual purpose: keep me away from her little one and let him know she was there. She succeeded on both fronts: no way was I going back out there, and her baby was looking up at her the whole while. Moments before he had been agitated by my presence (the lousy ingrate, jk), but now, he was the very picture of serenity.

I told the bird lady what had happened, and she snickered like she had too much water up her nose. I got the sense she could barely contain herself. I didn’t see what was so funny. But then she explained that my helpless blue jay had never been in trouble. A mother blue jay, it turns out, will literally kick her babies out of the nest. It’s how they learn to fly. The idea is to encourage them to stretch their wings in an attempt to come home. All the while, the baby birds are perfectly safe. As they struggle to use their wings, she sits nearby and watches, chirping every so often to let them know she’s still there. If any big scary animals come by (like me), then the little tykes get an extra lesson on how blue jays defend themselves. The woman on the phone explained that as long as Mom was around, there was nothing to worry about, and that if I wanted to see for myself why mama blue jays put their young through this, I should just sit back and watch.

So I did. And let me tell you, it’s a beautiful thing to see a baby bird learn to fly. He fluttered about like a bumble bee on steroids over to the shade of a pine tree, and then, with a mighty stretch of his wings (for a baby bird) flew branch by branch up to his mom and his nest, where he was as safe as safe could be. As Mom cleaned him up after his adventure, you could almost hear her say, ‘well done, son, well done.’

I have to tell you, I felt like an idiot. All that time, I thought that little bird must have been so worried. But he wasn’t worried at all (at least until I entered the picture!). He knew he was watched over, protected, and provided for. And as I thought of that, I really felt like an idiot. Because I suddenly thought of all the times when I have felt lost and vulnerable, alone and afraid, outside the ‘nest’ of safety, imagining all sorts of terrible things that might happen to me. When in fact, I am being watched over too. I too am guarded and guided. I too am being provided for. Indeed, it may well be that the reason I am in the situation in the first place is because I need to learn something that will enable me to stretch my wings and fly. Something to help me find my way home. Something that will enable me to become everything that the one who watches over me desires me to be.

You know the song, don’t you?

Let not your heart be troubled
His tender word I hear.
And resting on his goodness
I lose my doubts and fears
Tho by the path he leadeth
But one step I may see
His eye is on the sparrow
And I know he watches me
His eye is on the sparrow
And I know he watches me (Civilla D. Martin).

Jesus is right. We need to look to the birds. Both sparrows and blue jays. They have more sense than we do.

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this: