Last week, while driving along the highway enroute to my mother in law’s house on the edge of Lancaster County, PA, I beheld a Christian fish on the bumper of a passing car and felt…well, first, let me give some background.
Long before the Christian fish graced car bumpers, t-shirts, hats, and keychains, it had a storied history as one of the treasured symbols of the early Church. It was based on an acronym of the phrase, ‘Jesus Christ, God’s Son, Savior,’ which, in Greek spelled out the word ichthus, that is, fish. This corresponded nicely with several events recorded in the Gospels, most particularly the feeding of the multitudes and the calling of the disciples to be ‘fishers of people.’ In the early centuries of Christianity, when falling into the wrong hands could easily get a Christ follower killed (tossed to the lions, lit on fire, beheaded, crucified upside down, etc.) the fish symbol was a godsend; a secret sign to help identify a stranger as a fellow believer. If, say, you met a traveler on the road, and he or she drew an arc on the ground with their foot, you would then draw a transverse arc to complete the sign of the fish. Both travelers would then know they were in the company of one whom they could trust.
I’m sure that people who met this way had many differences, perspectives, and outlooks. The early church was like that. Greeks and Jews. Men and women. Rich and poor. Citizens and non-citizens. Slaves and freemen. Folks who enjoyed Virgil and those who did not. I’m sure that if they had time to discuss everything they believed and thought, there would have been many things they disagreed about. In fact, there were. The New Testament record itself notes many points of disagreement among the early believers: should we or should we not eat food that has been sacrificed to idols? Should the Gentiles be circumcised? Which day of the week should we call the Lord’s Day? Is it okay to eat Pork? But to wary Christians maneuvering through a hostile world, the fish erased all of it. It told them, ‘Here is a fellow traveler with whom I share unity in Christ. Here is one who lives free from the empire’s grip. Here is a brother walking the counterculture way of Jesus. Here is someone on my side. Here is my friend.’
I once felt that way at the sight of a Christian fish. Not that I have ever faced persecution for my faith as the early believers did, but I once knew well the comfort that came with seeing a symbol that identified a stranger as a fellow traveler along the road of discipleship. Years ago, when my family and I lived in Phoenixville, PA, we often took trips to nearby Lancaster County, where the culture was chock full of such symbols, reminders that we did not walk the journey of faith alone. It would be comforting to pull into a restaurant and see a car with the ichthus on its bumper. It would soothe my soul to enter a business and hear Christian music played softly in the background. It would make me smile to see a church group on their way to whatever was playing at Sight and Sound. Sure, there were lots of things that made us different from others who bore the symbols of their faith, cultural, sociological, political differences. But still. It was nice to know you were in the presence of strangers who were more than strangers. There was, I felt, more to pull us together than tear us apart. They were brothers and sisters. They were, despite whatever differences existed, people on my side.
But I didn’t feel that on my way to Lancaster County last week. Sadly, my reaction was what it usually is these days whenever I see a sign or symbol of Christianity, be it a fish or something else: wariness. ‘Watch out,’ something deep inside me cries, ‘here is someone you may not be able to trust. Here is someone who quite possibly, perhaps even probably, is not on your side.’ I don’t immediately sense that I am in the presence of one with whom I share unity in Christ. I don’t immediately sense that the person before me is beyond the empire’s grip. I don’t sense the presence of a brother or sister walking the counter-cultural way of Jesus. I don’t sense the presence of a friend. No, it pains me to say, I feel nothing of what those early Christians felt. These days, a Christian fish puts me on guard. It makes me wary. I ask myself, ‘Can I trust this person?’ And I answer, ‘Probably not.’
I know. I’m a Christian pastor. You think I shouldn’t feel that way. I should have a more positive attitude. But reader, I don’t feel this way because I’m paranoid; I feel this way because of experience. I’ve been burned far too many times. Don’t get me wrong. I feel very safe around many Christians, such as the ones in the church I serve. But so many times, too many times, when I’ve met strangers bearing the outward signs of Christianity, I have engaged them only to learn they are wolves in sheep’s clothing. They support those who promote violence and hate. They wink (or worse) at white supremacism. They cherish the empire. They are ready to wage war against perceived enemies in the name of Jesus. They live in the world of ‘us versus them’ and demonize ‘the other.’ And, when they find out that I don’t share their views, I quickly become both ‘them’ and ‘the other.’ I quickly realize that members of my own family aren’t safe around them. This doesn’t happen every time of course, and when it doesn’t, I am thankful for the encounter. But it has happened enough that my heart no longer feels joy at the sight of a Christian fish.
Maybe I was once naïve. But it was nice back in the days when I could think the best of those who, through the outward manifestations of their faith, purported to be my brothers and sisters in Christ. When I could believe there was more that held us together than tore us apart. But I no longer live in a world where I can draw an arc in the sand and trust that the person who draws the transverse arc is a friend.
And so I lament. I lament the loss of Christian unity. I lament the loss of innocence. I lament the loss of the joy the sight of an ichthus once gave me.
I lament the loss of a Christian fish.
Under Christ’s Mercy,
Brent