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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

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. 

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

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

Under the Stars

‘Shine like stars in the universe‘ – Philippians 2:15

Well here it is, my first post on my new blog, Stars Above Me. Those of you who know me well may get the name, but others of you may not. So let me begin by telling you what it means. What follows is the story of my calling into ministry, a story I never get tired of telling.

It was years ago, and I was an unhappy attorney who wanted more out of life. I didn’t like what I was doing, and felt as if I was moving in the wrong direction. Discontented to the core of my being, I turned to God to discover what he wanted me to do with my life. There were many ways in which I sought Him, but by far the most significant was this: I would go out into my backyard each night to pray and watch the stars. I did this for many months, gazing at the wonders above me, talking to God, and hoping for the moment when he would talk back.

It all came down to one night when the moon was absent, the air was crisp, and the stars shone brighter than usual. As I gazed above, my attention fixed upon the light of two planets. On my right was the gentle, yellow glow of Venus. On my left, the soft orange-red of Mars. A canopy of stars in between. I got to thinking of being a traveler between two worlds. I stood between two planets, in a solar system of nine (yes, I’m counting Pluto), in a universe filled with countless more, revolving around billions of suns.

As I contemplated my place in the universe, an image from a Calvin and Hobbes cartoon popped into my mind: Calvin, six year old philosopher that he is, stands under a sky full of stars and shouts for all he is worth: ‘I’M SIGNIFICANT!’ only to add, in a more subdued tone, ‘said the dust speck.’

I felt pretty small in that moment.

But soon the moment passed, and the lyrics to the song His Eyes by Steven Curtis Chapman came into my heart: ‘Sometimes I look above me, when stars are shining, and I feel so small. How could the God of heaven, and all creation, know I’m here at all? But then in the silence he whispers, ‘My child, I created you too. And you’re my most precious creation. I even gave my Son for you.’

It was in that moment that I heard God’s voice. I was overwhelmed by God’s unconditional love. And like that (snap!) I knew exactly what God wanted me to do. I knew that it broke God’s heart that so many people live in the dark concerning his love. I knew that it was my calling to help make as many as possible aware of it. Suddenly the thought that anyone would ever stand between two worlds, under a canopy of stars, and feel insignificant was unbearable. People need to know they were priceless. They need to know that no matter how battered, beat up, broken, or bruised they may be, everyone, in God’s eyes, is more precious than the stars.

Before long I was in seminary, and the rest, as they say, is history. For nearly twenty years, I have done my best, as a student, pastor, writer, and neighbor to let others know of God’s love. It is my hope that this blog will be an extension of the mission God gave me: to let my world know that there is a God who loves, universally and without condition, and that he has been revealed to us in Jesus.

Yet there is more to say. There was a time when I thought my mission was to be carried out primarily through acts of compassion and telling the story of Jesus. These remain central to the mission, but in recent years my journey has taken an unexpected turn into the realm of activism. The world we live in is becoming increasingly characterized by hate, fear, and violence. Evil, ever present, is on the rise. There is so much that is antithetical to God’s love. Worse yet, this hate, fear, and violence (not to mention apathy toward it) exists within the Church. The very place that should be most loving is often the least loving. I have seen Christians I once admired pulled into the darkness, supporting cruel and heartless policies. Misrepresenting God. Misrepresenting Jesus. Misrepresenting the unconditional love that deems every life significant and worth dying for. Not all Christians are doing this. Many are speaking out. But many are not. Many are, by their action and inaction, complicit in the cruelty.

And so, in this blog I will write positively to tell stories and faith lessons about faith, grace, and the unconditional love of God. But I will also write in the spirit of resistance. I will write against all that distorts God’s love, all that mischaracterizes Jesus. My goal will be to point away from a misguided world (and church) to the way of Jesus’ Kingdom, which is all and always about the expansion of God’s love in the world.

I hope you will follow my posts. I pray they will point you to the one who spoke to my heart on that night long ago from beyond the stars above me. I pray that you will come to know the real Jesus, the one sent from the heart of the God who loves.

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

He is Worthy

‘Is anyone worthy?  Is anyone whole?  Is anyone able to break the seal and open the scroll?’ – Andrew Peterson

‘Worthy is the Lamb who was slaughtered – To receive power and riches and wisdom and strength and honor and glory and blessing.’ -Revelation 5:12

The island of Patmos.  John is a prisoner of Rome, another victim of Imperial power.  But hope abounds, for John has of late received glorious visions.  Gazing across the cerulean sea, he beholds sights no eye has seen or tongue can adequately describe.  One such sight is before him now. 

The Father is on his throne.  The view is dazzling.  He is surrounded by angel armies, representatives of creation, and the people of God.  In His hand is a scroll sealed seven times.  When this scroll is opened, history as we know it will be come to an end.  God will step onto the stage and set the world to rights.  No more war.  No more violence.  No more disease.  No more pain.  The home of God will be with His people.  Creation restored.  All things made new.  That scroll represents, in a word, hope: hope that all that is wrong will be vanquished and all that is right will conquer.

John knows this. 

An angel cries across the landscape of heaven, ‘who is worthy to break the seals and open the scroll?’

John nearly bursts with anticipation.  This is the moment.  All things will be made new. 

But then, nothing.  For there is no one in heaven or on earth who is worthy to bring about the grand renewal of all things. 

Now, if you know the rest of the story, forget that you know it for a moment.  Imagine this were actually the case.  That there was no one worthy to break the seal and open that scroll.  How would you feel?  Devastated doesn’t even come close.  Imagine if, in the end, nothing is made new, and things go on as they do forever.  Exploitation of the powerless at the hands of the powerful.  The subjugation of peoples at the hands of empire.  Disease.  Death.  Violence.  Racism.  Hate.  War.  Slavery.  Sex Trafficking.  Imagine if these things were to continue forever.  If no one was able to put an end to them.  If humanity’s hope for a better world turned out to be a farce.  If the worst thing that ever happened to you continued to haunt you until the end of your days.  If sorrow would forever have the last word.  If wrong would never be put to right.

John ‘wept bitterly’ at such a thought (Rev. 5:4).  As well he should, for his dreams of restoration, dreams that had been the driving force of his life and had empowered him to endure suffering for the sake of a better world to come were, in that moment, completely dashed.  The love he built his hope upon would not win.  The world would continue as it always had.  Death would win.  Violence would win.  Cancer would win.  Cruelty would win.  Yes, John, weep bitter tears, for the world will remain bitter until it simply is no more. 

Thankfully, this is not true. 

I don’t know how long John wept, but while he wept, a visitor entered the heavenly court.  With the meekness and appearance of a lamb, Jesus steps before the throne of His Father.  One of the People of God shouts, ‘Stop weeping!  Behold – the Lion of Judah.  He has won!  He is worthy to break the seal and open the scroll!’

Slowly, reverently, Jesus approaches the throne of the Ancient of Days and takes the scroll from his Father’s hand.  In an instant, the angel armies, creation, and the People of God fall to their knees.  Their joy is beyond description.  For the day has come.  All things will be made new.  Love will win. 

The People of God begin to sing:

‘You are worthy to take the scroll and break its seals and open it. For you were slaughtered, and your blood has ransomed people for God from every tribe, and language, and people, and nation. And you have caused them to become a Kingdom of priests for our God. And they shall reign on earth.’

Then the angels add their voices:

‘Worthy is the Lamb who was slaughtered – to receive power and riches and wisdom and strength and honor and glory and blessing.’

And finally, all creation joins the chorus:

‘Blessing and honor and glory and power belong to the one sitting on the throne and to the Lamb forever and ever. Amen.’

Incredible.  At the end of history, the one who will bring things to a close will be the one who was slaughtered like a lamb.  Not the power brokers.  Not the generals.  Not the Presidents or Prime Ministers.  Not the rich and powerful.  But the King who served rather than be served.  The Lover who loved in the face of hate.  The Lion who lived like a lamb.  The warrior who overcame the world, not with a sword, but with a cross. 

The scene John describes in Revelation 5 has been on my mind a lot these days.  Part of the reason is that I recently discovered Andrew Peterson’s song that describes it, ‘Is He Worthy?’  It’s been weeks since I first heard that song and I’m still waking up at night feeling the sheer joy of its words.  The other part is that I’ve been thinking a lot about the Lordship of Jesus; what it means to say that Jesus is Lord. I live in a world where people have mixed allegiances.  Even Christians, who should be single-minded in their devotion to Christ, often practice a syncretistic faith that seeks to honor Jesus alongside of other gods: nationalism, militarism, consumerism, and a thousand others.  Those gods, or at least those who follow them, are constantly being held before me, even by professing Christians, as worthy of adulation and imitation.  I am asked, in one way or another, to give them my praise and allegiance.  But when I remember the scene in Revelation 5, I am reminded that Jesus alone is worthy of imitation, praise, and allegiance.  He alone deserves blessing, and honor, and glory, and power. 

The Lordship of Jesus reminds me that He is the only one I want to follow.  He is the only one whose life I want to imitate.  At the end of history, it will not be those who were powerful in this world who will claim the victory.  No, every one of them will fall and cast their crowns at the feet of the One who is worthy. 

If that is true, and it is, then every one of us who claims to follow Jesus needs to recognize that Jesus is Lord, not only on that day at the end of history, but in our lives right now.  And that means that we need to truly follow him, we need to imitate him, we need to praise and give our allegiance to him.  We need to strive with all our might to be like him. 

As for me, I’ve decided that’s all I want to do.  I want to be like Jesus (Lord knows that leaves me with vast room for improvement!).  I don’t ever want to do anything that Jesus himself did not or would not do.  I only want to do what Jesus did and would do.  I only want to be like Jesus. 

And if that means that I have to serve rather than be served, to love in the face of those who hate, to live like a lamb in a world of wolves, to fight with a cross instead of a sword, to deny myself as I take up my cross and follow the way of Calvary love, well, so be it.  Because if that’s what Jesus asks of me, what else can I do, what else would I ever want to do, but follow my Lord?

For after all, He alone is worthy. 

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Pastor Brent

Note: Artwork featured in this post by Karen Snyder, quote at top from the song, Is He Worthy? by Andrew Peterson