Eyes for Peace

As He came near and saw the city, He wept over it, saying, “If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes.” (Luke 19.41-42)

There is no after-party following Palm Sunday’s parade. Jesus dismounts the borrowed donkey and goes to the Temple, has a look around at what’s going on, and returns to Bethany. We know what Jesus finds during His brief stop at the Temple upsets Him, since He goes back on Monday to oust moneychangers and merchants who gouge holiday worshippers with inflated prices. He unites two prophetic texts to condemn their criminality, saying, “My house shall be a house of prayer, but you have made it a den of thieves.” And we have a pretty good idea that Jesus returns the next day intent on shaking things up, in part because He’s in a foul mood. On His way into the city, He spots a fig tree that hasn’t yet blossomed. He’s hungry, but the tree has nothing to offer. So He curses the tree and it shrivels up. This is a side of Jesus the disciples haven’t seen—their first indicator that there’s been a shift in the atmosphere. Everybody’s tensed up.

Before all of this happens, however, Luke captures a poignant moment that helps us recognize the sorrow Jesus feels for Jerusalem. He pauses before entering the city and weeps for its decline. Jerusalem, the proverbial city on the hill, whose world-famous Temple sits atop its highest peak, has lost its vision. According to Isaiah 56, God has ordained Jerusalem’s Temple as a site of justice and inclusion. The chapter begins with a divine command: “Maintain justice and do what is right, for soon My salvation will come, and My deliverance be revealed.” (v1) The prophet lays out God’s vision for the Temple, describing a place where eunuchs and foreigners who were previously excluded would be welcomed and given places of honor. This is where we find the “house of prayer for all peoples” declaration. (v7) Gender and ethnic boundaries will be erased. Peace and unity will prevail in the Temple, which shapes Israel’s social and religious agendas. Jesus is entering Jerusalem to offer its people salvation and deliverance. But even before He steps inside the city, He isn’t hopeful. “If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes,” He laments.

His reference to blindness invokes God and Isaiah’s displeasure with how the Temple is being run. In verses 10 and 11 we hear, “Israel’s sentinels are blind, they are all without knowledge; they are all silent dogs that cannot bark; dreaming, lying down, loving to slumber. The dogs have a mighty appetite; they never have enough. The shepherds also have no understanding; they have all turned to their own way, to their own gain, one and all.”

Jesus weeps because this is an old, old story. The gulf between the Temple and its people continues to widen. The correctives issued in Isaiah 56 haven’t been obeyed. People are still turned away from worship. The rich get preferential treatment. Preachers and teachers continue to serve up God’s promises, yet they have no vision for what those promises will look like in a “new Jerusalem,”—the place Jesus has spent three years describing as “the kingdom of God.” And here He stands, looking at Jerusalem through tear-swept eyes, the very embodiment of God come to save and deliver Israel from its religious and political oppressors. Their promised Prince of Peace is with them, but they can’t see it.

We can see it, but do we really understand what we’re looking at? The cry from Jesus’s heart mourns the loss of community. God has endowed Jerusalem with power to become a singular place where no one is rejected, where God’s all-inclusive love can reign supreme. Jesus has come to offer this amazing gift to a holy place that has lost touch with what makes it holy. Seeing how many of our own churches reflect Jerusalem’s failure, we too should mourn. But mourning is not enough. We should walk into our places of worship with clear eyes for peace. We should recognize where our leaders and communities have failed and we should decry their resistance to change. God is calling for a house of prayer for all peoples. The redundant embrace—all peoples—stresses the expectation of uncompromised inclusion.

Any church or faith community that compromises God’s expressed vision should be regarded with suspicion. These are blind spots shepherded by people with no understanding. We will not be fed in these pastures. We will not find peace in them, even though they sing and preach in the name of Christ. So why are we there? It behooves every disciple of Christ to seek community among people who have eyes for peace and understand Who Jesus is. The glory of the Temple loses its luster when we realize it’s lost its way. The fancy robes and soaring architecture and showmanship that draw so many inside its walls lose their magic. When churches prefer some above others and deny entry to eunuchs and strangers, the ground they stand on is no longer holy. So weep like Jesus for their blindness. But follow Jesus’s example: declare your displeasure with their error and when they resist you—and they will—walk away. Find a home where people with eyes for peace live out God’s vision in tangibly faithful ways.

Always Content, Never Complacent

I have learned to be content with whatever I have. (Philippians 4.11)

“I don’t like Paul.” I’ve heard several people say this lately. My response is always the same—a sympathetic nod—because Paul isn’t easy to like. On one page, he takes our breath away with eloquent dissertations on God’s grace. On the next, he trips all over himself, snarling at his detractors, belittling women, and mistaking swagger for certainty. But while I too quarrel with Paul’s personality and more than a few of his ideas, I like him very much. I like him because he’s difficult to like. I like him because he’s never reluctant to admit to his messiness. Most of all, I like him because he’s our finest example of a sincere Christian trying to figure out how all of this is supposed to work and what it all means.

I see Paul as a sort of lead investigator in the faith lab. He’s constantly at work, observing new phenomena, combining ancestral beliefs with novel approaches, debunking outdated myths, replacing them with fresh paradigms, and always—always—struggling unlock the Gospel’s revolutionary truths. Paul insists on publishing his findings as he goes, a daring proposition for anyone carving out new territory, let alone someone tasked with establishing the principles and practices of a radical faith movement. As a result, we’re privy to his blunders as well as his breakthroughs. It’s why we see him barrel down a dead-end alley one place—for instance, in his condescension toward women’s roles in the home and church—and then reverse his direction elsewhere, as he does by declaring, “there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus,” in Galatians 3. These flaws attest to Paul’s obsession with figuring things out. Despite his irksome vanity, he’s not interested in proving how smart he is. He’s doing his best to put everything together for the sake of the Gospel. He may not be likeable. But he’s always sincere.

We can get closer to Paul by recalling that, like many of us, he’s the product of a highly prescriptive faith environment. Before Christ charges him to be an Apostle, he already knows the Hebrew Bible by heart and has gained respect as a model seminarian. On top of that, he’s a Roman citizen, a foreign-born Jew of the merchant class, a person of privilege. So he comes from an entirely different place than the other disciples. By the time he’s stopped by a vision of Jesus on the Damascus Road, he’s sure he’s got a handle on how things work. Now he has to start all over again. And one of the key shifts in Paul’s life occurs when he learns to differentiate between complacency and contentment.

In Philippians 4.11-13, we find Paul’s magnificent contentment confession: “I have learned to be content with whatever I have… In any and all circumstances I have learned the secret of being well-fed and of going hungry, of having plenty and of being in need.” And what is his secret? “I can do all things through Christ Who strengthens me.” We can assume Paul’s talking only about his physical and material needs. Yet I’m of the mind it runs deeper than that. I believe he would also add, “I know what it’s like to be religiously complacent and how to be content with unanswered questions. I can remain committed to trying to figure it all out, while conceding it’s more than I can ever comprehend.” Now his famous “I can do all things” statement becomes an epic declaration of faith in the making.

I’m thoroughly convinced that every Lenten desert contains a Damascus Road of some kind—a bracing encounter with Christ that calls us away from shallow lives of religious complacency and leads to the deeper mysteries of faith. We won’t figure it all out. We’ll make blunders and find ourselves backtracking from ideas we’ve embraced in the past. Not everyone will be happy with us. But in our pursuit of right relationship with God we can find contentment. Paul told Timothy, “There is great gain in godliness combined with contentment.” (1 Timothy 6.6) Pursuing God’s will and way inevitably requires us to start over, clearing away ready-made answers to make room for questions we can’t possibly resolve. But when we combine that with contentment, we will gain strength for our journey and discover lives of faith that are anything but complacent.

Sharers--an Epiphany

This mystery… has now been revealed to Christ’s holy apostles and prophets by the Spirit: that is, the Gentiles have become… sharers in the promise in Christ Jesus through the gospel. (Ephesians 3.5-6)

Room

When I was a kid, Sunday mornings began at the breakfast table with “The Revivaltime Hour,” a weekly radio broadcast. The host, Dr. C.M. Ward, was my father’s favorite preacher and over the years, he’d befriended my parents. I never met him. To my young ears, he sounded like Walter Cronkite. Most of what he said got lost in the table talk and clatter of dishes. But I recall how soothing his tones were; there was mastery in his voice that deepened my sense that God had everything under control. Most of all, it was the music that stuck with me. The program opened with “All Hail the Power of Jesus’ Name,” an 18^th-century anthem full of coronation imagery that climaxed with “crown Him Lord of all.” Then, after Dr. Ward’s message, “Revivaltime” closed with a gentle rendition of the invitational hymn, “Room at the Cross”:

There’s room at the cross for you

Though millions have come, there’s still room for one

Yes, there’s room at the cross for you

Sometimes, despite the breakfast hubbub, the song would grip Dad’s heart. His eyes would cloud up and I could almost see what he must have seen in his mind's eye: a young man from small-town Alabama making his way to Calvary, finding his place beside millions who’d come to kneel before their newfound Lord and Savior.

My own favorite religious program came on the air at 9 PM. It was the live broadcast from Fellowship Missionary Baptist Church—an African-American congregation whose 100-voice choir rocked the airwaves with its signature opener, “Leaning on the Everlasting Arms”:

What a fellowship! What a joy divine!

Leaning on the everlasting arms

What a blessedness! What a peace is mine!

Leaning on the everlasting arms

This was great news to a young man steadily realizing his God-given identity would one day lead him away from his family’s faith tradition. To enter into fellowship with a God Whose love would never fail was a promise I could believe, a hope I could never surrender. While both broadcasts’ doctrines were nearly identical, I found Fellowship’s Jesus to be more than an omnipotent Sovereign. Their Christ was a Lord Who reached out with everlasting arms to enfold and protect me. The programs intersected in their final moments. Like “Revivaltime,” Fellowship left the air as the pastor, Rev. Clay Evans, led the congregation in “Room at the Cross”. Their version was much slower—less an invitation than a reassurance—and they crafted a second chorus to underscore the boundless, inclusive love of Christ:

You may be high, you may be low

Some are rich, some are poor

STILL, there’s room at the cross for you

Mystery

This weekend’s texts—celebrating Epiphany—brought back the flood of emotions that coursed through the Sundays of my youth. Matthew’s Gospel gives us the Magi, who journey from the East in search of Israel’s promised Sovereign. They come fully prepared, bearing treasure to offer the Babe as they kneel at His cradle. Yet they really have no business being there. They aren’t Jews. They’re obviously not poor or lowly or oppressed. Still, they come. They’re drawn by the bright promise a new star that rises in the east to guide them. It is a light sent just for them—a light that assures them they’re welcome to worship the Incarnate God, a Lord of lords Who willingly exchanges royal robes for swaddling clothes, throne for crib, crown for the cradle of a teenaged mother’s hand. And this image, indelibly printed on our minds, delivers the Christmas message with stunning clarity. It is a promise that follows Jesus through His life, death, resurrection, even to this day: High, low, rich, poor, there’s room for you.

It’s unlikely the Magi grasp the import of their visit—a journey born of intellectual curiosity that will become the first testament of Christ’s all-inclusive love. In an age when personal, religious, ethnic, and national identities are so tightly intertwined as to be inseparable, that God would raise a star to summon pagans to Jesus’s side boggles the mind. That the Creator would literally move heaven and earth to include people traditionally deemed unwelcome defies reason. And that the Spirit would move Matthew to record this moment—forever fixing the presence of outsiders in our Christmas iconography—confounds us. In Ephesians 3, Paul calls this phenomenon “the mystery of Christ.” He stresses the radical nature of God’s inclusion as something we can never comprehend yet nonetheless must believe. In verses 5-6, he writes, “In former generations this mystery was not made known to humankind, as it has now been revealed to Christ’s holy apostles and prophets by the Spirit: that is, the Gentiles have become fellow heirs, members of the same body, and sharers in the promise of Christ Jesus through the gospel.” Fellow heirs. Members of the same body. Sharers in the promise. Though millions have come, there's still room.

Epiphany

We’ve not made much progress in defeating the ancient notion that all the threads of our identity are so tightly woven together they’re all of piece. And to a large extent, that’s true. The concept falls apart, however, when we assume certain aspects of identity make us unacceptable to God. Such ideology is the illegitimate spawn of human tradition. It doesn’t square with what we see with the Magi or hear the Spirit say through the apostles and prophets. Who we are, where we come from, and whatever social and religious baggage is thrust upon us bear no relevance in terms of God’s lavish welcome. Every effort—all the powers in the world—attempting to shut us out cannot change the fact that we “have become fellow heirs, members of the same body, and sharers in the promise in Christ Jesus through the gospel.”

There’s room—that is the epiphany for today, tomorrow, and all time. It is the mystery made manifest in a Creator Who displays sovereign power by moving heaven and earth to summon the least likely of us to Christ's side. It is the promise made real by a Babe Whose tiny arms unfurl, inviting us to fellowship with a God Who loves us without measure. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. Trust what your eyes see and the assurance the Spirit speaks to your heart. You cannot be crowded out. You will not be turned away. Bring your gifts. Ask your questions. Follow Christ’s star. It was sent just for you. Discover what the Magi found: there’s room for you.

God’s lavish inclusion is the mystery at the heart of Epiphany’s celebration.

Postscript: “Room at the Cross”

I found this clip of Rev. Clay Evans, now in his late 80s and pastor emeritus of Chicago’s Fellowship Missionary Baptist Church, from those golden years when he led his congregation in “Room at the Cross”. It still brings joyful tears to my eyes. The hymn he segues into (“At the Cross”) says:

At the cross, at the cross, where I first saw the Light

And the burdens of my heart rolled away

It was there by faith I received my sight

And now I am happy all the day

The same Light that drew the Magi to Christ’s cradle radiates from Calvary’s cross, there for all who, by faith, receive their sight. May this Epiphany overwhelm you with the joy of discovering there is room for you!

Not of This World

Then Pilate entered the headquarters again, summoned Jesus, and asked Him, “Are You the King of the Jews?” Jesus answered, “Do you ask this on your own, or did others tell you about Me?” (John 18.33-34)

Empire, Supremacy, and Legitimate Rule

This weekend, churches worldwide mark the end of the liturgical year with the feast of Christ the King (also known as “The Reign of Christ”). The official line on its origin holds that Pope Pius XI instituted the feast in 1925 to offset growing secularism among the Faithful, to remind them that Christ is the Sovereign Ruler and Lord of all. But numerous historians have suggested the feast was also born of political expediency. World War One effectively unraveled the last of Europe’s dynastic empires, in one case contributing to the overthrow of a monarch (Russia) and in others (Great Britain, Austro-Hungary, and Germany) reducing royal figures to ceremonial heads of state. As “anointed” rulers of vast lands, they had governed at the behest of their spiritual overseers. This paradigm would be no more. In addition to splintering the Continent into smaller, autonomous nations, the War augured the ascendance of a new world leader, the United States. Although Americans were far less consumed by secularism than their French cousins, both countries passionately upheld the separation of Church and State. There was no mistaking they signaled a wave of the future that would strip Catholic and Protestant prelates of power they’d exercised for centuries.

Pius XI’s declaration of Christ’s sovereignty over all nations and peoples was an easy purchase for Protestant bishops who typically ignored Vatican edicts. Few questioned its theological urgency. Rapid shifts in thought had thrown the balance of religion and politics off-kilter. Christianity’s role as Western civilization’s voice of justice and compassion was failing; God’s kingdom was losing ground. As so often has happened in Church history, there was more to the Feast of Christ the King than met the eye: the assertion of Christ’s Lordship doubled as reassertion of ecclesiastical influence. And its tension between religious and political power is instructive, since the same issues—empire, supremacy, and legitimate rule—bubble up in Sunday’s Gospel. (John 18.33-17) This time, however, belief threatens politics. A new wave of thought is taking hold, one that insists a Higher Authority trumps the power structure cobbled together by an uneasy alliance between Rome and Judaism. A new kingdom—mysteriously described as “not of this world”—is on the rise. And its Herald, the renegade Rabbi, Jesus of Nazareth, is called to account for allegedly treasonous ideology that could (and ultimately does) overturn the status quo.

Pilate on Trial

Familiarity with the scene—Pilate’s interrogation of Jesus—offers no help with deciphering its riddles. The bluntness of their exchange is deceptive, as each man harbors doubts about about the other’s legitimacy. Jesus is charged with heresy, a matter of no concern to Rome beyond its potential to destabilize the fragile balance of power the Empire has struck with the Temple establishment. Yet the high priests are reluctant to rule against Jesus, fearing a populist backlash that would demonstrate they’ve lost control of their people and render them useless to Rome. With acute cunning, they shift the burden to Pilate, accusing Jesus of professing to be King of the Jews, which qualifies Him as an insurgent worthy of death at Roman hands.

When Jesus stands before him, Pilate doesn't mince words. “Are you the King of the Jews?” he asks, to which Jesus responds, “Do you ask this on your own, or did others tell you about Me?” (v33-34) With that, the tables turn. Jesus puts Pilate on trial. Has the Roman summoned Him because he wonders if Jesus is indeed the King of the Jews? (This possibility isn’t lost on either of them, since Pilate’s boss is also a self-avowed divine monarch.) Or is this merely a pro forma hearing to get to the bottom of baseless gossip? Neither option pleases Pilate. Genuine curiosity about Jesus’s identity would belie his faith in Caesar; investigating religious rumors would make him a puppet of the Temple elite. So Pilate deftly distances himself from the situation, admitting, “I’m not a Jew. I shouldn’t be expected to understand this stuff.”

The deflection opens the door for Jesus to assert divine authority. “My kingdom is not from this world,” He says. With daring sarcasm that brings a smile to the alert reader’s face, Jesus validates His otherworldly claim: “If my kingdom were from this world, My followers would be fighting to keep Me from being handed over to the Jews.” (v36) Since this obviously isn’t happening, the argument makes sense to Pilate. Still, its elusive nature doesn’t settle the matter. “So are you a king?” he asks again, dropping the Jewish reference. Jesus replies, “You say I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I came into the world to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.” (v37; emphasis added)

Power to Seek the Truth

The Feast of Christ the King invites us to witness the truth of Christ’s Lordship—to embrace faith in a divine kingdom that supersedes human authority. Yet accepting this belief cannot happen by taking prelates and pastors’ word for it. We can only discover the truth by listening to Christ’s voice. And I’m persuaded this realization springs from the first question Jesus puts to Pilate: “Do you ask this on your own, or did others tell you about Me?”

Our confidence that Christ reigns supreme begins with profoundly personal questions about Who Jesus really is—and how much real power we’re willing to cede to His Lordship. As it was in Pilate’s court, so it is in our lives. Faith in Christ’s kingdom demands humility born of understanding its mysteries can never be fully understood. It’s impossible to equate Christ’s sovereign rule with earthly powers, as the kingdom of God seeks no earthly power; it summons authority by granting us power to seek the truth of Who God and Jesus really are, who we really are, and the roles we play in a kingdom unlike any ever known. Pilate’s small-mindedness is exposed in his dismissal of Jesus’s challenge. He wants an admission of power that has nothing to do with the truth of Christ’s kingdom. Clearly, he’s not listening. And we benefit from his deafness, because it opens our minds to recognize the truth of Christ’s Lordship can never be told. To experience its majesty, it must be heard. Amid all the regal adjectives tossed around in this weekend’s liturgies, hymns, and sermons, I trust we’ll hear the voice of Jesus. Do you ask this on your own, or did others tell you about Me?

Seen through the prism of Pilate’s interrogation, the truth of Christ’s Lordship emerges as thing that cannot be told. It must be heard to be understood.