Set Them Free

The cowering prisoners will soon be set free; they will not die in their dungeon, nor will they lack bread. For I am the LORD your God, who churns up the sea so that its waves roar... I have put my words in your mouth and covered you with the shadow of my hand. (Isaiah 51.14-16)

Exponentially and Continuously

October 11 is National Coming Out Day (NCOD) in the States and many European countries. (The UK observes it on 12 October.) It’s a relatively new tradition, and we’re just getting the hang of it. One might think of it along these lines: as US Independence Day is to Election Day, LGBT Pride is to NCOD. Pride celebrates freedom to be counted as equally recognized and honorable members of society; NCOD creates an occasion for women and men who’ve not yet embraced their freedom to do so. Since it involves no polls, there are no reliable data to assess its real impact. Yet even if we could calculate how many took advantage of NCOD, the figure—whether 5 or 5 million—would concede a gulf-sized margin of error to account for not including everyone, regardless of orientation, who quits the closet alongside the newly out LGBT individual. Coming out must be measured exponentially and continuously, because none of us comes out alone—whatever our closets may be (and we’ll get to that in a minute).

Calling off the hide-and-seek routine initiates a journey. The instant we say, “This is who I am and where I’m going,” we essentially ask everyone who hears (and hears of) our declaration: “Are you coming or not?” Thankfully, some hurry to join us, saying, “It’s about time!” Others come along despite uncertainty they’re equipped for the journey. Some need more time to process the information we just dropped in their laps—information we’ve had years to absorb—and send us off with promises to catch up, which they ultimately honor. Then, sadly, others want no part of it. They issue an ultimatum: “If you quit this closet, we’re through.” That’s why we can never know exactly how many people come out. It’s Henry + 6 x the people they inform (- those who stay behind). It’s Nancy + 250 x their friends and neighbors (- others who refuse to leave her closet).

What Do We Do?

The person coming out is never one data point, but a cluster of them that continues to multiply as more supportive allies accumulate. We show them our respect and gratitude by factoring them into our thoughts and conversations about coming out. As Christians, however, we’re also compelled to consider the missing points—the people shackled to prejudice and fear, those who sever ties to us because they’ve wound their love around doctrines, dogmas, and myths, and, finally, the unfortunates who filter every difficulty they face through their what’s-in-it-for-me sieve. What do we do—what can we do—for the people who can’t, don’t, or won’t leave our closets to take this journey with us?

We set them free.

Not us. Them. We set them free. This is where coming out ceases to be about us. Surely we understand those who willfully remain behind. How can we not, having fled the very terrors that torment them? It took years for us to muster the courage to defy it. Their reticence shouldn’t shock us in the least. Can we comfortably accuse them of conscious hatred, hypocrisy, and cowardice after inflicting the same harms—and many more like them—on ourselves? How soon we forget the doubt and confusion that darkened our lives!

Because we weren’t honest with God, others, or ourselves before coming out, we often look back on the closet as no more real than we were while trapped inside it. It’s now a cliché we’ve outgrown, a cartoon chamber of horrors we sneer at. But the closet remains very real to everyone it holds. It’s a prison that warps the heart of anyone too weak to resist its pressures. We recall the crippling grip of cowardice and the pain it hides in mean talk and hateful postures. The closet’s realities must never escape us. People we dearly love still languish there. And though we’re out of the closet, we won’t truly be released from it until we’ve done all we possibly can to set them free.

Answering Under Cover

“Okay!” I hear some complain. “The horse is dead. Put your stick down and tell us how we rescue our loved ones. What has to be done to tear the closet down?” We don’t tear it down. And we most certainly don’t go back into it, thinking we can sneak them out. (I know several who’ve tried and ended up worse off than before they came out—a few going so far as to submit to voodoo mind control therapy, attempting to reshape God’s image to reflect their fears. Oh yes, the closet is an extremely sinister place!) We free those still trapped in our closets by speaking and living freely. While they may claim they no longer care about us and may even say they hate who we’ve become, never doubt they’re attentively observing and listening to us. More likely than not, they watch because they’re primed to expect we’ll one day reappear at the closet door, begging forgiveness and readmission, like prodigals who’ve squandered their dignity on high living and carnal pursuits. In other words, they wait for us to fail. They don’t want us to fail, but they’re convinced we need to and we will. And that’s okay, because their attention is all that matters. With that, we have a God-given opportunity to demonstrate what freedom and integrity look like.

When we dedicate our lives to our Maker and devote our energy to pleasing Him, what they actually see bears no resemblance to what they anticipate. As I’ve personally witnessed again and again, our departure from their closet-based assumptions will trouble them. It should, as coming out constitutes a profoundly daring leap of faith—an act of determination based on confidence that God made us and loves us as we are. And faith never goes unrewarded. So coming out changes us for the better. The trials and hardships that often follow the leap are sent to refine our character, correct our thoughts, and increase our faith. Coming out fixes our speech and amplifies our courage to calm the distress that troubles others. Listen closely to Isaiah 51.14-16. God promises what we say and the confidence we express will become keys that release those still locked in our closets:

The cowering prisoners will soon be set free; they will not die in their dungeon, nor will they lack bread. For I am the LORD your God, who churns up the sea so that its waves roar—the LORD Almighty is his name. I have put words in your mouth and covered you in the shadow of my hand—I who set the heavens in place, who laid the foundations of the earth, and who say to Zion, "You are my people."

See how this works? God honors their faith by troubling their minds. The churning doubts and roaring disapproval come from Him. He honors our faith by enabling us to answer under cover—to speak words He puts in our mouths boldly and fearlessly, knowing His hand rests over us. It doesn’t matter what closet we have (or have yet to) come out of. The things we want to hide are things God wants to use. Nothing He gives us is unworthy or unsightly. Every trait and talent, everything that makes you uniquely you, is given to steer and sustain your journey. Shake off worries about what others will think or how they’ll respond to your freedom. Come out. Claim your gifts. Use them. Demonstrate freedom and integrity. You’re surrounded with people waiting for you to come out. You know people who won’t get it at first, but they’ll follow in time. And you also know people too threatened and uncertain to leave your closet. See God in their churning. Hear Him in their roars. His hand will shelter you so you can speak His word to their troubled minds. You may have to speak it over and over. But keep speaking. Keep being. Set them free.

It doesn’t matter why they’re watching, as long as we can show them the freedom and integrity that come from leaving our closets of fear and doubt.

People and Things

I have not coveted anyone’s silver or gold or clothing... I showed you by this kind of hard work we must help the weak, remembering the words the Lord Jesus himself said: "It is more blessed to give than to receive." (Acts 20.33, 35)

Covetousness

When I left my marketing agency job to freelance from home, one of the first lessons I learned was daytime TV can be frightfully seductive. Once it’s got you, it holds you with enticing promises of “what’s coming up next.” Before you know it, the day’s gone. I had to set a policy: No TV. In exchange, I could record one guilty pleasure to enjoy over lunch—assuming I got to eat lunch. So (brace yourselves) I chose “Judge Alex,” a syndicated court show featuring a strikingly handsome Cuban-American jurist with a sense of humor and compassionate streak I admire. Today’s episode about a botched used-car sale between friends—a common complaint—startled me with the announcer's opening summary: “They were closer than close, but material things came between them!” I thought, That’s mighty lofty language for a deal gone bad. Yet as I watched the case unfold and saw how broken trust over a thing irreparably severed the litigants’ friendship, my mind kept inching toward covetousness. I did my best to leash it, because it’s an uncomfortable subject for us. When last did you open a book, click on a blog, or hear a sermon that addressed wanting something so badly you were willing to hurt someone—a loved one, neighbor, coworker, or even yourself—to have it? We just don’t care to discuss it. Instead, we work around it, casting it as the silent partner of sins we view more seriously: greed, lust, envy, deceit, and so on. If covetousness plays a decisive role in so many destructive pursuits—and it does—should we not talk about it as much as, or more than, the rest? How have we got so detached from a sin so tightly affixed to so many weaknesses?

Tenth Out of 10

A big part of the problem originates with The Ten Commandments, where covetousness comes in tenth out of 10. Of course, it’s grossly incorrect (and downright silly) to presume they’re ordered by priority. Still, because they begin with four exceedingly profound edicts that define Hebrew faith and culture—a preeminent God, no idols, devout reverence for His name, and the Sabbath—it’s easy to think of the remaining six as amendments to a divine constitution. What’s more, they also suggest ordinal significance. “Honor your parents” (5) tops this section because those after it concern antisocial behaviors that often result from rebellion and squandered upbringing: “Don’t kill” (6). “Don’t commit adultery” (7). “Don’t steal” (8). “Don’t lie” (9). Then, if we track the relative social and psychological impact of each act, they do appear less consequential by descending rank. Thus, for many, it stands to reason number 10, “Don’t covet” is the least important on the list. “What harm is looking without touching?” we ask. And this is our first mistake, as touching always starts with looking.

We know not to question God’s wisdom in including an anti-coveting law in His precepts. Nonetheless, we’re tempted to minimize its relevance because the original language and grievances it cites are ridiculously archaic: “You shall not covet your neighbor’s house. You shall not covet your neighbor’s wife, or his manservant or maidservant, his ox or donkey, or anything that belongs to your neighbor.” (Exodus 20.17) The chattel kills it for us—wives and servants defined as male-owned property on par with real estate and farm animals. The examples are so morally repugnant we dismiss the whole thing as indefensible. Taking this tack invites downfall by suggesting since these egregious practices no longer exist, covetousness is not a “modern problem.” But it is. It’s a really big problem. In fact, given how much more we have and our heightened awareness of what others have, it probably poses a bigger threat to us—despite our “progress”—than ancient Israel.

Exploiting Vulnerability

First-century Christians had no issue with calling covetousness by name. It was an evil unto itself—not one folded into “bigger” sins. And it seems they were able to get past the examples to focus on the principle set down to combat the sin’s dangers. Paul, who wrote off most laws as obsolete and irrelevant, makes a point of expressing gratitude for the Tenth Commandment in Romans 7.7: “I would not have known what coveting really was if the law had not said, ‘Do not covet.’” Whether or not its examples were germane to him, they illustrated the principle and that was enough. Indeed, he strikes this note in Acts 20.33-35, as he bids the Ephesians a fond farewell. “I have not coveted anyone’s silver or gold or clothing,” he professes. “You yourselves know that these hands of mine have supplied my own needs and the needs of my companions. In everything I did, I showed you by this kind of hard work we must help the weak, remembering the words the Lord Jesus himself said: ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive.’”

What’s remarkable about this passage is its usefulness in explaining what Paul means by “I wouldn’t have known what coveting really is” in Romans. “We must help the weak” is the critical link. Covetousness makes the Top Ten by being more invidious than raw lust or greed, envy or deceit because its linchpin is exploiting vulnerability. Once we fix our hearts on getting something that belongs to someone else—be that property position, success, or reputation—it drives us to search for and devise ways to capitalize on his/her weaknesses. We lie in wait for an opportunity to help them fail. We discourage them to our benefit. We take advantage of their trust. Sometimes we even go out of our way to get “closer than close” so things we want from them will come between us.

We needn’t regress to classifying people as property to admit covetousness reduces them to that. There’s no difference between “I’ve got to have that!” and “I want him/her!” The world runs wild with lost souls pouncing on vulnerabilities with the intent of crushing relationships, success, reputations, and hopes. And for what? A lover. A promotion. A leg-up. A laugh. The moment admiration for another’s blessings switches to imagining they can be ours is the instant we sense covetousness at work. If we’re wise, we shut it down before it infects our minds, eyes, ears, and tongues. Covetousness inverts everything Jesus taught and exemplified. It’s an evil unto itself. It compels us to hurt whom we should help, to hate what we should honor. Coveting people and things meets no need. It serves no purpose. When it enters our minds, we need to call it by its name and confront it for what it is.

Coveting inverts everything Jesus taught and exemplified. It compels us to exploit others’ weaknesses. It’s an evil unto itself and we should confront it for what it is.

Take It Easy on Yourself

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. (Matthew 11.28-29)

Digging Down and Doing

This is one of those passages we regularly reach for, yet seldom grasp. Without doubt, it’s one of the most blissful—and blessed—promises Jesus makes: “When you’re worn down, come to Me. When you’re overloaded, come to Me. I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11.28) Could it be more straightforward? So we take Him up on His offer. We go to Him and sigh, “Oh, Jesus, I’m so beat. I just don’t have it in me to move ahead.” Or, “Oh, Jesus, I’ve had it up to here. I just can't find the strength for one more problem.” We stand and wait, as though He’s running a supernatural rebound clinic, where He doles out reenergizing pills and burden reduction therapy. To some degree, the protocol we’ve derived from this text works, because time spent in Christ’s presence always restores energy and strength. Yet when we study the instructions attached to it, our approach is out of line with His direction. Like everything Christ teaches, the outcome He promises expects significant behavioral change from us.

It’s the next part that throws us, where Jesus explains how we get rest. Thus, before staggering to His doorstep, clutching verse 28 like a gift certificate to a spiritual spa, we should read verse 29’s fine print a few times:

Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.

Notice the not-so-subtle shift from “I will give” to “you will find”? When we feel too exhausted and put-upon to keep going, we turn to Christ. But in our turning, we realize His promise isn’t about standing around and waiting. It’s about digging down and doing. Jesus never says He’ll handle the heavy lifting. He invites us to exchange our baggage for His lighter load. He doesn’t offer a massage and a nap. He shows us how to take it easy, so our backs don’t ache from unnecessary burdens and our stamina isn’t spent on pointless exertion. “Be like Me,” He says. “Be gentle. Be humble. And you’ll find rest.”

Weary

At a glance, this passage seems to pop up from nowhere. It feels tacked-on at the bottom of a relatively uneventful chapter, as if Matthew decided he needed a button—a closing zinger—to pep it up. When we read chapter 11 with wide eyes, however, there’s no mistaking why it’s there. By the time we reach verse 38, it’s obvious Jesus is weary. The chapter starts with bad news. A big crowd has turned out to hear Him preach. Just before He speaks, disciples of John the Baptist arrive to inform Him their imprisoned leader now has second doubts about Jesus. “Go back and tell him what you see,” He replies. “People are being healed. I’m preaching the truth. John needs to settle down.” After they leave, Jesus realizes the crowd overheard His discussion. Some damage control needs doing, because it’s commonly known Jesus began His career as John’s disciple and launched His ministry at the Baptist’s urging. This little dust-up could easily be misinterpreted as rank ingratitude on Jesus’s part or, worse yet, set fire to new questions about His legitimacy. Now He has to scuttle what He intended to tell the people and assure them He holds John in highest regard.

It clearly enervates Jesus that John, his followers, or the crowd would entertain the notion He’s not authentic. “What do you people want?” He asks. “John lives in the desert like a recluse and you say he’s possessed. I minister in the towns and because you’re not thrilled with the company I keep, you say I’m a glutton and drunkard. You’re like a bunch of kids trying to run the show.” Then, catching Himself, Jesus finishes this part of the sermon by saying, “Wisdom is proved right by her actions” (v19)—the same message He sent to John. Usually, He’d change gears here, maybe tell a story with an uplifting moral, or point to something—a tree or field or coin—and extract life-giving wisdom from it. But He can’t seem to escape the weariness and pressure brought on by relentless questions about Him no matter how much good He does. Jesus unleashes a barrage of woes aimed at cities that doubt Him despite the miracles He performed in their streets. It’s not pretty. Once more, He catches Himself, only now He stops preaching and starts praying. The prayer reveals what’s actually going on and why He’s so tired of it. It’s in the prayer that He finds—and we learn how to find—rest and relief.

A Child Can Do It

“I praise you, Father,” Jesus says, “because you have hidden these things from the wise and learned, and revealed them to little children.” (v25) The challenges that weary Christ come from clever people driven by insatiable craving for difficulty. They make things more taxing than they are because simplicity strips their audacity and pride. When the answer is so obvious a child can see and understand it, the smart crowd loses its edge. They flood the squares and pulpits, declaring, “It’s not as simple as it looks.” Yet in Christ’s case, looking proves how simple it is. As He prays, Jesus comes to grips with the fact He’s made Himself tired by trying to get the smart set—whether people of faith, like John and his followers, or doubters, like the cities He condemns—to see what they won’t believe. He’s got sucked into their madness, which He doesn’t relate to, because He’s not like them. They’re harsh; He’s gentle. They’re haughty; He’s humble. They love difficulty; it’s their weapon. He loves simplicity; it’s His gift.

“All things have been committed to me by my Father,” Jesus confesses in prayer. (v27) He has no use for grueling debates and cumbersome issues. Faith in His Father and His purpose removes any reason to be combative and haughty. After this coalesces while He prays, He tells us: “Learn from me. Don’t get sucked into the madness. It’s not as difficult as they claim. It’s just looking and believing—so simple, a child can do it. Don’t let non-essentials exhaust and burden you. Be gentle. Be humble. Be like me. Take it easy on yourself and you will find rest.”

We exhaust and overload ourselves with non-essential complexity. Christ teaches His way is so simple a child can see it. Following His example is how we find rest.

Enough!

Blessed is the man who does not walk in the counsel of the wicked or stand in the way of sinners or sit in the seat of mockers... He is like a tree planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither. (Psalm 1.1,3)

We Wonder

Last week’s news of Tyler Clementi’s suicide burdened our nation, and many around the world, with heavy hearts. His was an unusually happy story that turned tragic in a matter of minutes and ended abruptly the next day. The implications surrounding the tragedy go beyond the premature loss of a talented young musician whose gifts were meant to impart joy and inspiration for years to come. They expose corrupt, distorted values that inevitably emerge when a society becomes preoccupied with fear and hate.

The unjustly sad and final chapter of Tyler’s life starts with a foolish prank. A freshman at Rutgers University, he—like many at his age—was self-consciously discreet about his same-sex orientation. But he appears to have caught the attention of another young man. When he asked for privacy to spend time with him, his roommate pretended to oblige. While Tyler and his friend enjoyed one another’s company, the roommate streamed live video of their visit to an audience he rustled up with this Twitter feed: “Roommate asked for the room till midnight. I went into molly’s [sic] room and turned on my webcam. I saw him making out with a dude. Yay.” With one invasive mouse-click, he uncovered a secret Tyler purposefully held until he could feel confident and comfortable revealing it. If his wishes and feelings were even considered, they weren’t respected. And we wonder: while his privacy was maliciously violated, was he waiting—hoping—for love and companionship to open the door so he could live openly and honestly? While unknowingly victimized by haters who vent fear through ridicule, did he envision the complete opposite—pride, integrity, and courage? Such sentiments often race through the minds of young gay people at moments like this. Whether Tyler pondered them we don’t know, because he left without telling. He typed six words—“Jumping off the gw bridge sorry”—on his Facebook page, got into his car, and spent his final hour en route to the George Washington Bridge.

Absence of Light

Without minimizing the tragedy, Tyler’s story was perfect for TV. It had terrific video of him playing the violin. It occurred on a highly esteemed campus, complete with leafy quads and Gothic architecture. It involved technical savvy and social networking—hip, hot topics. Tyler’s sexuality definitely added edginess. (Many news outlets deviously upgraded “making out” to a “sexual encounter.”) Still, while watching the coverage unfold, I thought of the innumerable teen suicides that go unreported simply because they occur in less auspicious places and less viewer-friendly situations. How many other children took their lives that day because someone had no problem humiliating them? How many fell to gun violence? (Last week, four Chicago teenagers’ lives ended that way.) How many decided another minute in a world drunk with malice, fright, and pessimism was more than they could bear? And—God help us—how many are silently, invisibly inching closer and closer to the precipice, where the dark unknown frightens them less than terrors hiding in absent light?

And absence of light truly is the issue. Before we slap indictments on the disciples of hatred and fear, it’s our duty to assess how fervently and insistently our light shines. Have we misused Christ’s calling on our lives as a rationale for polite meekness? Are we too concerned about ruffling feathers and alienating people to seize every opportunity to restore light where it no longer exists? Must we actually experience tragedy born of our timidity before mustering courage to fight a cultural tide of thoughtless evil? Had any of us known Tyler or his roommate, does our typical behavior enable us to imagine we might have been instrumental in preventing their tragedy? Or would we have been the sort that thinks we're "making a statement" by not laughing at hateful jokes or sitting silently by while others promote fear and prejudice? Is our concern about being stigmatized victimizing others? No doubt, at this very moment, people who knew these young men wish they'd said or done what they should have said and done to prevent this horrible outcome.

We Will Not

Something’s very wrong when the people we live, work, and associate with presume we’re okay with their destructive attitudes and behaviors. Getting along with everyone is less essential—indeed, it’s non-essential—than spreading our light. To think we can remedy this crisis while abiding its causes is nonsense. Our commitment to justice and righteousness should precede us. We shouldn’t be welcome where hatred and fear reign. We mustn’t be seduced by the idea permission indicates tolerance. We can’t risk perils that befall those who believe it’s possible to indulge darkness up to a point. The first sign of its presence is the moment we say, “Enough!” and mean it. The safety of innocent lives is at stake. Our personal fulfillment and peace of mind are as well.

“Blessed is the man who does not walk in the counsel of the wicked or stand in the way of sinners or sit in the seat of mockers,” Psalm 1.1 wisely asserts. When we think this through, the focus shifts from what’s unacceptable in others to what’s unacceptable for us. Saying “Enough!” says, “We're not allowed to do this. We won't contribute to the crisis. We won’t risk the consequences. We will not surrender our light to darkness.” The psalmist tells us the person who defies wickedness and mockery cannot be shaken. “He is like a tree planted by streams of water,” verse 3 says, “which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither. Whatever he does prospers.” Why does the poisonous produce of hatred and fear overwhelm us at present? Too few trees bear the fruit of love and faith. We must stand firm in the light, all of us, every one of us, upholding the light, and declare without qualm or condition, “We cannot be shaken. We will not move.”

Absence of light perpetuates a culture of hatred and fear. We cannot falter in our resolve to restore light and end this crisis.

What's in the Water?

You are all sons of God through faith in Christ Jesus, for all of you who were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus. (Galatians 3.26-28)

Dunkers

I was reared in Pentecostalism, the schismatic offspring of Fundamentalist groups like the Nazarenes and Baptists, which means I come from a tradition of “dunkers.” Baptism for us was/is less a sacrament (though it is that) than a rite of passage, much like First Communion and Confirmation are milestones for Catholics, Anglicans, and Lutherans. Unlike those practices, however, our baptism isn’t generally associated with a certain age or juncture in faith formation. Individuals who come to Christ and confess His Lordship are urged to take “the next step,” i.e., meet the minister in waist-high water—usually in the church baptistery, but sometimes at an outdoor location—to be bodily submerged beneath its surface. (We refer to this as “total immersion.”) Since confession of sin presumes moral conscience and precedes baptism, the ritual is reserved for believers who’ve reached the “age of accountability.” Ergo only those mature enough to recognize their errors, repent of them, and commit their lives to Christ qualify as baptismal candidates. Each believer holds the right to determine when he/she gets “dunked.”

This tradition fixes its adherents to a perspective that strenuously opposes two practices in other Christian communities: infant baptism and the sprinkling or pouring of water on the believer. In the first case, it holds young children are incapable of true repentance and thus ineligible for baptism. And die-hard dunkers, for whom total immersion becomes a cause célèbre, jump to point out Peter’s first instruction to the Church is “repent and be baptized.” (Acts 2.38) The insistence on total immersion isn’t as cut-and-dried, however, as New Testament accounts don’t explicitly report head-to-toe dunking. For example, at Christ’s baptism, Matthew 3.16 says, “As soon as Jesus was baptized, he went up out of the water.” Does this mean He was under the water or returned to Jordan’s riverbank? In Acts 8, after hearing the Gospel, the Ethiopian eunuch asks Philip to baptize him. Verse 38 says they “went down into the water,” but doesn’t spell out the mechanics. And I’m not sure what we do with Acts 10, where Peter visits Cornelius, a Roman centurion, sees his and his family’s faith, and baptizes them on the spot. Are we to imagine Cornelius lives in a villa equipped with a spacious pool? Those are mighty fancy digs for a soldier stationed abroad.

Too Much Like Right

With no irrefutable example, total immersion advocates fall back on a literal reading of Paul’s turn of phrase in Romans 6.4 and Colossians 2.12: “buried with him in baptism.” Meaning and metaphor conflate into a method that inflates into a mandate: no submersion, no “burial;” no “burial,” no baptism. And now we come to the rich irony buried in this baptism business. While the dunkers’ rationale for their approach could use more solid scriptural backing, their neighbors across the fence—the sprinklers and dousers, many of whom recoil at the idea of getting soaked to the bone in a public display of faith—don’t fare any better. Nothing in Scripture indicates their technique is any more or less valid. The long and short of it: all we know is baptism exists as a holy ordinance, a symbolic demonstration of faith typified in death and rebirth. Everyone agrees on this and that it must be done. But no one can say with absolute certainty how to do it. So it makes sense to concede the issue on all sides and celebrate the meaningfulness of the act, rather than quibble over the material aspects of the activity. There should be no contention whatsoever about baptism. Yet it remains one of the most divisive topics among us.

Why can’t we come clean and admit we’re all solid on the principle, but shaky on the procedure? To borrow my grandmother’s pet phrase about people who insist on bickering over phantom differences, “Agreeing sounds too much like right.” If everyone’s right about baptism and nobody’s wrong, then I can’t question your Christian experience, nor you mine. That’s a beehive we’re terrified of splitting open, because once we do, we have to respect each other’s beliefs—and our individual rights to believe as we believe—entirely, without exception. In short, we have to trust one another’s word and mean what we say, neither of which comes readily, or reasonably, to us. It’s so much easier to speak for God despite His needing no spokesperson. And we’re very clever about how we do this.

We’re too smart to attack fellow believers on the grounds we’re forgiven and they aren’t. There are just too many “whoever’s” and “anyone’s” and “everyone’s” on the loose. We dare not tamper with that. But baptism—ah, baptism!—now there’s something we can rally around to riot over. If I don’t have to take your word about that, I don’t have to accept it about anything else I’m not comfortable believing. What’s more, since baptism is the physical testimony of repentance, disqualifying your baptism disqualifies your faith. We’ve turned this sacred institution into a trap door we use to pull the floor from beneath one another—or, in some cases, disappear through like it’s a rabbit hole to an alternative universe where we’re right and everyone else is wrong. God have mercy on us.

All of You

Baptism’s mystery and meaning aren’t in fingers that sprinkle, hands that pour, or arms anchoring candidates as they go under. (Or, for that matter, are they found in arms cradling an infant whose parents present the child in baptism to signify their vow to raise it in the faith and knowledge of Christ.) Baptism’s power and majesty reside in the water, whatever its quantity or however it’s administered. Thus, we must ask, “What’s in the water?” Opening Galatians 3.26-28, we find our answer. “You are all sons of God through faith in Christ Jesus, for all of you who were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” Confession of faith brings us to baptism, whose primary purpose is removal of differences. It is not the equivalent of salvation, nor is it simply a reenactment of death and resurrection.

It is total immersion, if not literally, then in the far more profound sense of submersion in a Force so powerful it destroys all divisions, be they cultural, religious, social, or sexual. Baptism clothes us in Christ, Paul teaches. It creates uniformity of purpose by cloaking our pride of self and doubt of others. It enables us to see each other as one and the same. (“Your are all one in Christ.”) By way of baptism, everyone belongs—babies and grown-ups; Protestant, Catholic, and Orthodox believers; rich people and poor people; brown, black, white, yellow, red, and mixed-race people; women and men, gay, straight, and everything in between; dunkers and sprinklers and dousers—everyone touched by the water belongs. And doesn’t it just figure? The very sacrament ordained to free us of differences is the one we won't quit fighting about. Agreeing on baptism doesn’t merely sound too much like right. It is too much like right. Once we get this corrected, we’ll be able to correct the “too much like wrong” that plagues and defames the Body of Christ we’re baptized into.

It’s not in the method; it’s in the water. Baptism submerges us in a Force so powerful it destroys our differences and clothes us in uniformity.

Mistakes and Messes

Anyone who lives on milk, being still an infant, is not acquainted with the teaching about righteousness. But solid food is for the mature, who by constant use have trained themselves to distinguish good from evil. (Hebrews 5.13-14)

An Organic Process

We’ve a new kitten in the house, a dark-gray shorthair named Maxwell. Our first concern was introducing him to Cody, the two-year-old prince who took charge the day we brought him home. We read the articles, talked to the vets, and prepped for the accepted protocols, expecting Cody to put up a serious fight. Not so. The getting-to-know-you period lasted all of an hour before the buddies-for-life phase kicked in. We’ve got a different problem on our hands with Maxie. He’s so besotted with his big brother he’s determined to be like him in every way. This is most apparent at mealtime. Kitten food doesn’t interest him; he wants what Cody eats. Despite every ploy to prevent him, the little guy finds a way to gobble up anything the big guy leaves behind. It’s often too much to for him to digest—not enough to hurt him, just more than he can handle. Suffice to say, until Max’s system matures and he trains himself to eat richer foods in proper quantities, stain and odor alerts will remain in effect.

With faith formation being an organic process comparable to physical maturation, obvious parallels spring to mind—particularly, integration and dietary issues we tend to overlook. In many ways, we’re like cats, dogs, and other domestic pets. Our adoption starts with being lost or outlasting our welcome. We need a home. Christ finds us, takes us as-is, and promises to love, nurture, and protect us. Although He ensures our security, acceptance by others He found and took in isn’t always assured. Sometimes, the getting-to-know-you phase flies by so quickly it barely registers. Sometimes, it takes a very long time. And, sadly, sometimes it’s aborted when believers who fear any challenges to their way of life become antagonistic. In the last scenario, we have no option other than asking for grace to understand them and trust Christ to deal with them on our behalf. For the moment, however, let’s look at the first case, the Max-Cody situation.

Growing Up

Easy acceptance often triggers overindulgence. We bite off more than we’re mature enough to process. On the other hand, fear of rejection may cause us to stunt growth by sticking with what we can easily absorb. Scripture teaches growing up in faith involves training ourselves to distinguish what nourishes us from what harms us. Neither a diet we’re not yet strong enough to handle is recommended, nor is one of easily digestible fare that no longer spurs growth. As we muddle toward spiritual maturity, we can’t forget it’s okay to make a mess. Training ourselves to absorb increasingly complex, healthier fare necessitates impulse and presumption. (How can we learn what’s too much without discovering it’s too much?) But, on balance, mistakes and messes we make to enrich our faith far outweigh becoming weak and exhausted on watered-down staples we outgrow.

A rather charming moment arrives in Hebrews 5 that helps us understand how mistakes and messes connect with growing up. The writer is deep into his/her theological premise that Jesus is our High Priest, the Agent by whom we access forgiveness and redemption. It’s a message sure to resonate with Jewish readers steeped in sacrificial rituals. But it’s tricky. Understanding the principle demands a leap that begins with the symbolically literal to arrive at the conceptually abstract. So the author is rolling along, making the case, and suddenly realizes a lot of readers probably don’t get it. The accomplished theologian becomes the frustrated parent. In verse 11, we read, “We have much to say about this, but it is hard to explain because you are slow to learn.” A bit of chiding follows. “You should be teachers by now,” he/she writes, “but you’ve not learned how digest meatier ideas.” For those who’ve not risked making mistakes and messes by attempting to process heavier fare, the writer essentially lays their immaturity at their doorstep. “Anyone who lives on milk, being still an infant, is not acquainted with the teaching about righteousness. But solid food is for the mature, who by constant use have trained themselves to distinguish good from evil.” (v13-14)

Training Our Palates

Although many persist in trying to complicate the Gospel of Christ, it’s remarkably simple. We strayed from God’s intentions. Jesus came to redeem us—to give us a new home. Obeying His commands rewards us with abundant life. The Hebrews writer refers to these concepts as “elementary truths,” the milk of God’s Word. As we mature, however, milk no longer suffices. We need solid food. Our hunger for new flavors and textures grows keener. We begin training our palates to digest complexities hidden in these elementary truths. The simplicity of God’s intentions gives way to implications in our lives and responsibilities to Him and others. They morph into His will and we steadily learn what pleases Him most is always best for us. The unparalleled love expressed in Christ’s sacrifice opens our comprehension of grace’s power and our obligations as recipients of grace to provide grace. We recognize the unmerited favor we experience by right of adoption requires us to welcome everyone who finds a home in Christ.

Training our palates is how we wean ourselves from basic milk, so we no longer need to be spoon-fed or closely monitored. It becomes unnecessary to be told what’s healthy or harmful in our behaviors and attitudes. Our mistakes and messes teach us what tastes right and what doesn’t. But none of this occurs if we insist on playing it safe and never bite into more than we can chew. When we’re infants in Christ, the complex implications of following Him are difficult to digest. I should evaluate everything I do in terms of God’s will and how much it pleases Him? The unconditional love that rescued me requires me to love everyone—including my enemies—without condition? Self-control and sacrifice are prerequisites for fulfillment and growth? In training ourselves to process these more difficult ideas, we’ll invariably mess up. But Max teaches us something. Testing our tolerance for richer foods is how we develop tastes for them. Mistakes and messes are how we grow.

As we mature, we crave richer flavors in God’s Word. Some are difficult to process at first, but we train our palates to digest them and grow stronger as a result.

The Peace of Jerusalem

Pray for the peace of Jerusalem: “May those who love you be secure. May there be peace within your walls and security within your citadels.” For the sake of my brothers and friends, I will say, “Peace be within you.” (Psalm 122.6-8)

It’s Time to Pray

Last Thursday, King Abdullah II of Jordan appeared on “The Daily Show with Jon Stewart.” Like millions of viewers, I count on the program to leaven current events with doses of irreverence and irony. It helps that my politics hew to the show’s liberal slant. Still, I’d probably enjoy it even if I disagreed with its editorial position, since its primary target is foible. “Feet of Clay” might be a more fitting name for it. Four nights a week, the show serves up deliciously sardonic examples of officials, pundits, and firebrands stumbling badly. But now and then it transcends comedy. This happened Thursday, as Jordan’s monarch—the moderate leader of a nation encircled by political and religious animosity—discussed his region’s turmoil. He made one point that staggered me with dread. If the moratorium on Jewish settlements in the West Bank isn’t extended past its September 30 expiration, war between Israel and her Arabic neighbors will follow. I spent Friday contemplating how rapidly the conflict might escalate as nations lined up behind either side. Then I opened Saturday’s readings to find Psalm 122: “Pray for the peace of Jerusalem.” With the moratorium deadline days away, it’s time to pray.

Teaching Peace

“Jerusalem” is a compound name combining an ancient Semitic word meaning “to teach” with another that means “peace.” Yet in the fifty-plus years I’ve been alive the sun hasn’t risen on a single day that assured peace inside it walls. “Peace in the Middle East” is a punch line akin to “when Hell freezes over”—except there’s no joke to set it up. If there were, it would no longer be laughable anywhere on the planet, as the intense hatred dividing its Jewish and Muslim occupants has triggered violence everywhere, from lower Manhattan to Bali. That Jerusalem, literally and symbolically, rests at the heart of global strife is all the more surprising when we consider its Islamic name, al-Quds Sharif, or “The Holy Sanctuary.” Of all places, Jerusalem should be the safest, calmest, most peaceful city on Earth. It should be “the city on the hill” that Jesus speaks of in the Sermon on the Mount. Its residents and culture should be the ideal every other community aspires to, the epicenter of tolerance and good will. Its sole preoccupation should be teaching peace and providing a worthy sanctuary for God’s presence. It should be. But it hasn’t been for so long we immediately associate it with everything but what its name suggests. Thus, we pray for the peace of Jerusalem.

We must be very canny in how we pray, because many have mistaken the psalmist’s entreaty as a biblical directive to side with Israel at all costs, at all times. The psalmist calls us to pray for peace and nothing else. That’s the issue—not religious or political allegiance. Peace. If not patently wrong, it’s simplistic for Christians to assume we’re obligated to uphold modern Israel’s policies based on ancient texts, if for no other reason than those texts suggest otherwise. Throughout Scripture, Israel, as a nation and people, is as prone to sin and error as anyone else. Chapter after chapter, God confronts the injustice of its actions and vanity of its disobedience. Its complex relationship with God is beyond our depth. The same applies to Islam’s relationship with Allah. The issues to be worked out concern the three of them—God/Allah, Israel, and Islam. Meddling in their madness inevitably invites suffering for us, because we risk promoting injustice out of ignorance. The best we can do, the only thing we can do, is pray for peace in Jerusalem, the Teacher of Peace, for peace in al-Quds Sharif, the Holy Sanctuary.

Our Prayer

The psalmist tells us exactly what to pray. “May those who love you be secure. May there be peace within your walls and security within your citadels.” (v6-7) Our prayer favors neither side. It’s a plea for God’s intervention, asking Him to neutralize a situation that history proves is beyond human ability to control. Before we pray, we must rid ourselves of every predisposition and opinion about the conflict and those it involves. Praying that either side prevails prays against peace. More than that, in a very real—and dangerous—sense, it denies our faith in an all wise, just, and loving God. We forget our heritage as Gentile believers is made possible through Christ’s abolition of racial preferences. While we date the Church’s birth at Pentecost, non-Jewish believers' birth into It comes a bit later, in Acts 10, when Peter’s epiphany regarding God’s grace brings Him to this conclusion: “I now realize how true it is that God does not show favoritism but accepts men from every nation who fear him and do what is right.” (v34-35) A prayer for Jerusalem that favors Israel or Islam exceeds its purpose. It tacitly excuses sins committed by the favored side—and who can dispute both have sinned egregiously? In Psalm 66.18-19 we read startling words: “If I had cherished sin in my heart, the Lord would not have listened; but God has surely listened and heard my voice in prayer.” To prefer Israel over Islam or vice versa as we pray for peace raises grave questions whether our prayer will even be heard.

In his interview with Stewart, King Abdullah II superbly explained that sustained peace in Jerusalem will contribute greatly to the collapse of global terrorism. The Palestinian cause has been co-opted by haters to wreak death and destruction worldwide, attacking Israel's allies as punishment for their allegiance, he said. Once peace in Jerusalem prevails, terrorism will become a matter of urgency for nations that have permitted it to flourish unchecked. So peace in Jerusalem will, at last, fulfill the promise of its name. In light of the King’s comments, Psalm 122.8 rings with hope for people everywhere: “For the sake of my brothers and friends, I will say, ‘Peace be within you.’” Today, and every day—through September 30 and beyond—when we pray Our Lord’s Prayer, I trust we’ll offer it as a prayer not just for us but for Jerusalem’s peace, for al-Quds Sharif’s peace. "Your kingdom come, your will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven." We pray for the peace of Jerusalem—for the sake of the world.

“May those who love you be secure. May there be peace within your walls and security within your citadels. Amen.”

Postscript: The Interview

If you didn’t catch Jon Stewart’s interview with King Abdullah II, here is the broadcast portion. The remainder of the interview can be found here, where the King expands on his comments, including the complexity of the situation and his nation’s role in attempting to broker peace in Jerusalem.

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart	Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c
King Abdullah II of Jordan
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