We're Everywhere

Cast all your anxiety on him, because he cares for you. Discipline yourselves, keep alert. Like a roaring lion your adversary the devil prowls around, looking for someone to devour. Resist him, steadfast in your faith, for you know that your brothers and sisters in all the world are undergoing the same kinds of suffering. (1 Peter 5.7-9)

Undertow

As every preacher and churchgoer knows, gloomy topics rarely play well in the pulpit. That’s why looking at Sunday’s readings makes me glad I’m not one of thousands of ministers tasked with synthesizing them. Other than the psalms—which exuberantly extol God’s majesty and love—the texts have a decidedly unsettling undertow. The Old Testament reading, Genesis 18.22-23, gives us Abraham bargaining with God to spare Sodom, his nephew Lot’s recently chosen abode, if a quota of just people can be found there. Abraham starts at 50 and works down to 10; while his concern and courage are touching, knowing the final outcome lends a discordant note of futility to the story.

The Gospel revisits The Sermon on the Mount’s conclusion (Matthew 7.15-29), where Jesus warns us to beware of false prophets—calling them wolves in sheep’s clothing—and promises those who abuse God’s name to advance evil agendas will meet with doom. He compares them to a foolish man who builds a house on sand, ignoring the inevitable day when hostile weather destroys his wobbly structure. Instead, Jesus says, we should emulate the wise builder, whose house survives tumult because it stands on solid rock. Lastly, the New Testament reading (1 Peter 5.1-11) picks up the theme of integrity, counseling us to “clothe yourselves with humility in your dealings with one another, for God opposes the proud.” (v5) In this way, Peter says, we will withstand temptation and suffering that threaten our faith. All in all, the texts offer scant room for feel-good sermonizing.

Uncommon People

With the readings heavily leaning toward the dark side, one has to feel for the preachers challenged to present them in an uplifting light. While I have every confidence the best will, my mind flashed on the sad picture Lennon and McCartney paint in “Eleanor Rigby”: Father McKenzie, writing the words to a sermon that no one will hear. Naturally, that triggered the refrain:

All the lonely people

Where do they all come from?

All the lonely people

Where do they all belong?

The lament somehow brings new resonance, relevance, and unity to the texts. The people they involve—Abraham, Jesus’s listeners, and Peter’s readers—stand apart from a culture given over to violence, hypocrisy, and pride. In many ways, they lead solitary existences born of swimming against tides of reckless power and callous indifference. Yet I would argue faith makes them uncommon, rather than lonely. It’s not a matter of where they come from: they’re there because they’ve always been there. Nor is it a question of where they belong: they belong where they are because that’s where they’re needed. In a world teetering on self-destruction, their compassion, strength, and humility become control rods that reduce the likelihood of total meltdown. The courage of their conviction is wedded to the integrity of their belief that seeking justice and serving others will defeat socio-religious waywardness. Truly, they are uncommon people. And so are we who believe and behave like them.

Common Misgivings

Being uncommon doesn’t mean we’re wrong. It means we’re different. And being different—authentically different in ways that radically alter how we think, act, and speak—subjects us to complications that come with uncommon commitment to a higher calling. When loving God and our neighbors without restraint becomes our raison d’être, we take on concerns few care about. Heightened awareness to human frailty sharpens our ability to detect poisonous traits concealed in popular trends. Summoning the courage and integrity to speak truth to power with sincere humility isolates us from the apathetic silent majority, as well as belligerent, noisy malcontents. If Jesus’s example teaches us anything, it proves an uncommon life founded on love, faith, truth, and justice exacts great sacrifices, incurs much anxiety, and frequently experiences lonely, troubled times. As followers of Christ, we should anticipate these costs of discipleship. Yet, unlike Jesus—Who was “full of grace and truth” (John 1.14)—mortal logic exposes us to temptations and sufferings that convince us we’re alone in the struggle to do as Christ commands.

Peter closes his first letter by addressing common misgivings of an uncommon life. “Cast all your anxiety on him, because he cares for you,” he writes. “Discipline yourselves, keep alert. Like a roaring lion your adversary the devil prowls around, looking for someone to devour. Resist him, steadfast in your faith, for you know that your brothers and sisters in all the world are undergoing the same kinds of suffering.” (1 Peter 5.7-9) We consciously release all of our doubts, fears, and worries to Christ’s care—our pessimism about the world, fear of failure and rejection, worries about past, current, and future problems—all of it—because nothing can shake our confidence in Christ’s love. We keenly guard our thoughts and emotions against opposition enticing us to question our faith, whether it intimidates us with lion’s roars or camouflages predatory motives in sheep’s clothing. Then we counter feelings of isolation by remembering many like us confront comparable adversaries. “You know that your brothers and sisters in all the world are undergoing the same kinds of suffering,” Peter says.

We’re everywhere. LGBT believers whose families and faith communities condemn and turn against them are everywhere. Women barred from realizing their full potential in ministry and society are everywhere. Christians fighting addictions and unhealthy compulsions are everywhere, as are those shackled by traumatic pasts and abusive relationships. We have brothers and sisters all over the world—some known, most not—undergoing the same kinds of suffering we face for the same reason. Daring to be different carries heavy costs. Yet the heaviest costs of being true to Christ wither in comparison to its rewards.

All the uncommon people, where do we all come from? Where do we all belong? We come from everywhere and belong everywhere because we are everywhere.

We answer times of lonely struggle by remembering brothers and sisters all over the world endure similar tests due to their uncommon commitment.

Postscript: “I Need You to Survive”

At first I hesitated to attach this gut-wrenching treatment of Hezekiah Walker’s powerful plea for Christian solidarity. Yet, as uncommon people, we are called to a common struggle against mindless tragedy and callous indifference. Knowing we’re everywhere and drawing on shared strength, we can defeat evil that plagues our world. “I Need You to Survive.”

Finishing the Job

The LORD will fulfill his purpose for me; your steadfast love, O LORD, endures forever. Do not forsake the work of your hands. (Psalm 138.8)

Always More

A favorite family legend features my late Great-Uncle Grady, who was one of those all-around good guys always eager to help. A drunken driver had just murdered my Uncle Cyrus—a young father and aspiring physician in his mid-20s—and, in typical Southern fashion, our entire clan converged on my grandparents’ home. With the immediate family too devastated to attend to the arrangements, those once- and twice-removed valiantly stepped in. After finishing a long list of errands, Grady walked through the door and before he caught his breath, three or four aunts met him with a fresh list of things to do. Grady sighed, “I can’t get anywhere for going someplace!”

Our faith often feels like that, doesn’t it? Following Christ presents us with a daunting To-Do list: lessons to learn, principles to live by, behaviors to modify, promises to trust, people to love, and so on. Just when we think we’ve got somewhere, we discover there’s more to do. We need to discipline our emotions better, become more attentive in our prayer lives, grow in our knowledge of the faith, etc. There’s always more. We can expect frustration and fatigue—days when, like Grady, we sigh, “I can’t get anywhere for going someplace!” But before we make the mistake of thinking we’ve fallen short, we should remember this reaction is common to all believers.

The epistles are peppered with encouragement to remain patient, committed, and tireless. Galatians 6.9 says, “Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” In Hebrews 12.1-2 we read, “Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith.” Paul prefaces his letter to the Colossians by praying they will grow “in the knowledge of God, being strengthened with all power according to his glorious might so that you may have great endurance and patience.” (Colossians 1.10-11) So while we sigh, we can’t allow weariness and impatience to overtake us. We are getting there. We are growing. And here’s a little secret we should always bear in mind. (Did I say “little”? It’s huge!) If we stick with it, we will achieve spiritual maturity because responsibility for our growth is not ours alone. Simply put, when we do our share, God finishes the job.

The Miracle of Our Making

By definition, faith in our Creator necessitates rejecting randomness. Everything about us—our making, movements, and moments—results from divine design. I am a gay male living in Chicago in 2011 because God willed it so. All that implies in terms of my beliefs, aspirations, relationships, and responsibilities is imbedded in God’s plan for my life. The same is true for you. Every aspect of your life—who you are, where you are, and when you are—is by divine intention. The miracle of our making is that God subverts ridiculously random biological and biographical odds to shape each of us specifically as God desires, for reasons only God can fully comprehend. Faith in God’s infinite wisdom and power precludes attributing anything to coincidence, accident, fate, or luck (good and bad).

Psalm 139.16 captures this splendidly: “Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.” This truth puts to rest all questions about who we are, how we’re made, and why we’re made as we are. The shape and existence of every human is ordered by God’s sovereign decision. It’s that basic. As we fret over whether or not God creates gay people, if God means for some to be rich and others poor, and how can a loving God allow suffering, we delay asking the one question within reach: can we embrace divine purpose in our lives and trust God to fulfill it?

Psalm 139, cited above, is David’s masterpiece on the miracle of our making. It’s impossible to overstress its value to every believer—especially those subjected to attacks against the sanctity of their creation. We should know 139 inside and out, internalizing its conviction that God makes us with purpose. Yet the prayer that accompanies its soaring confidence appears at the end of the previous psalm: “The LORD will fulfill his purpose for me; your steadfast love, O LORD, endures forever. Do not forsake the work of your hands.” (Psalm 138.8) In addition to shaking all doubt that God created us with purpose, we must also place uncompromised trust in God to fulfill it. When our stamina falters and endurance runs low, we turn to God’s steadfast, eternal love. It becomes our sole source of certainty. Because God loves us, God is actively engaged in our lives.

As we submit to divine purpose—whether or not we recognize what it is—God faithfully, diligently works with us to ensure it will be fully accomplished. This principle is constantly reinforced in Scripture. Philippians 2.13: “It is God who works in you to will and to act according to his good purpose.” Ephesians 1.11: “In him we were also chosen, having been predestined according to the plan of him who works out everything in conformity with purpose of his will.” Romans 8.28: “We know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” The discipleship to-do list is much more than a set of high-flown ideals. We approach our tasks as pragmatic techniques enabling God’s purpose. “Do not forsake the work of your hands,” we pray. We do our part and leave finishing the job to God.

Hope and a Future

Finally, we cannot sacrifice confidence in God’s purpose, nor our trust it will be fulfilled, to doubters and third-party opinions. What anyone else believes or thinks has no bearing on what we know. In Jeremiah 29, God instructs the prophet to write a letter to Jews living in Babylonian exile, urging them to build houses, plant gardens, and start families—to keep growing, living with purpose despite their status as outsiders. Such unorthodox behavior undoubtedly will raise objections among traditionalists, which is why the letter cautions, “Do not let the prophets and diviners among you deceive you,” dismissing their opinions as reactionary dreams. “They are prophesying lies to you in my name. I have not sent them.” (v8-9) The real deal becomes clear in verse 11: “I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’”

God created us to have hope and a future. With that truth secure in our hearts, we echo Paul’s certainty in Philippians 1.6: “Being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion.” When we’re faithful to God’s purpose, God honors our trust and finishes the job.

We start by following Christ and doing the work of discipleship. God finishes the job and fulfills the purpose for our creation.

No Comparison

Since you call on a Father who judges each person’s work impartially, live out your time as foreigners here in reverent fear. (1 Peter 1.17)

Restoring Balance

Sunday’s readings presented such a bounty of riches it was hard to choose the Emmaus Road story over the other texts. The straightforward counsel in 1 Peter 1.17-25 sparked particular interest in light of its relevance to topics frequently discussed here. Reluctant to choose one at the other’s expense, it seemed best not to choose at all. Yet trying to cover both in one post was a recipe for disaster (tempting though that was). At a glance, the thread connecting the Emmaus narrative with Peter’s teaching isn’t readily apparent. But it’s implicitly there.

The Emmaus Road disciples are in the not-so-enviable position of witnessing Christianity’s dawn. Nothing is guaranteed—including their safety in Jerusalem, where being a known follower of Jesus may lead to reprisals, even execution. It seems wisest to put the whole discipleship adventure behind them, avoid the dangers of hanging around where they clearly aren’t wanted, and head for home. In contrast, Peter (or, more probably, someone writing in the recently martyred Apostle’s name) addresses second- and third-generation believers. The Church’s fundamental doctrines and structure are worked out by now. Much of what the disciples first struggled to understand is standard knowledge. As revolutionary faith steadily morphs into conventional belief, a new set of issues expose Peter’s readers to dangers very similar to those the Emmaus Road disciples dreaded.

Intended for circulation among several congregations in Asia Minor—a volatile melting pot of ethnic and religious animosity—the letter’s first task centers on steeling believers’ ability to outlast persecution. There is every cause for concern, as conventionalism has damped faith’s fires. Burning hearts the Emmaus travelers experienced when Christ rekindled their belief have cooled down. Worthy passions have been diverted in pursuit of strife. Pretenses of advantage rooted in spiritual one-upmanship weaken the churches from within. Restoring balance will strengthen internal resolve to overcome external threats.

Boasting

By no means is this severely crippling holier-than-you posture a uniquely Asian deficiency. (Nor, as we know all too well, is it a uniquely ancient one.) John’s first letter castigates Jewish believers for the same offense: “If we claim to be without sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us,” he says. (1 John 1.8) Big chunks of Paul’s European epistles—especially to the high-minded, high-handed Corinthians—rampage against ego-driven dysfunction. Braggadocio in Corinth is so bad Paul stoops to boast of his maturity and wisdom, simply to shut the braggarts down. “Let no one take me for a fool,” he writes in 2 Corinthians 11.16-18. “But if you do, then tolerate me just as you would a fool, so that I may do a little boasting. In this self-confident boasting I am not talking as the Lord would, but as a fool. Since many are boasting in the way the world does, I too will boast.” Lest his mockery be misread as approval of striving for competitive advantage, however, Paul soberly interjects, “If I must boast, I will boast of the things that show my weakness.” (v30)

Paul and John’s messages are identical: if we can’t bridle the urge to brag, we brag about what we’re not rather than all we imagine we are. “Therefore,” Paul says, “I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.” (2 Corinthians 12.9) This is classic Christian psychology—countermanding a harmful impulse (pride) by inverting its objective from vaunting superiority to embracing humility.

Although Peter diagnoses the same syndrome, he treats it pastorally rather than psychologically. Instead of focusing on dysfunction, he readjusts the Asian churches’ mindset by mimicking the technique Christ uses to reinvigorate the Emmaus disciples’ belief. Peter takes his readers back to their faith’s roots, walking them through its evolution from prophetic times to present. Of the prophets, he writes, “It was revealed to them that were not serving themselves but you, when they spoke of the things that have now been told you by those who have preached the gospel to you by the Holy Spirit sent from heaven. Even angels long to look into these things.” (1 Peter 1.12)

Divorcing Faith from Myth

Between the lines we read “these things” are bigger and more enduring than religious convention—bigger and more enduring than we are or ever will be. They’re not to be trivialized and abused as fodder for bragging rights. What’s more, the audacity to exploit timeless truth as a launching pad for one’s spiritual superiority ultimately reveals one’s ignorance of the truth. How dare we compare ourselves favorably to others when no comparison enters into God’s love and regard for each of us! In verses 17-19 Peter says, “Since you call on a Father who judges each person’s work impartially, live out your time as foreigners here in reverent fear. For you know that it was not with perishable things such as silver or gold that you were redeemed from the empty way of life handed down to you from your ancestors, but with the precious blood of Christ, a lamb without blemish or defect.” Since he writes to diverse faith communities comprised of Jewish and pagan converts, “the empty way of life” indicts all types of religious pride, whether seen when adherents to the same belief compete or one belief claims it’s “right” to the exclusion of others. Peter gives us a lot to chew on here.

Divine impartiality debunks the myth of comparative advantage. Yet divorcing faith from myth is something we can’t seem to do. When we observe extreme displays of religious pride—Christians torching Qurans, Jews and Muslims blowing each other to smithereens, the Hindu caste system, and so on—we’re appalled. But religious extremism isn’t born intact. It grows from seeds we carelessly nurture with unchecked boastfulness. While reading this, chances are your thoughts ran to persons or groups who boast of righteousness superior to your own; I did the same. It’s extremely difficult to recognize taking offense at others’ failings constitutes failure on our part. Condemnation of any kind belies false sense of superiority. It’s a weakness that weakens our world and blinds us from seeing it through God’s eyes. It resists confessing faith is bigger and more enduring than we are or ever will be. In God’s eyes, no comparison between us exists. By loving and judging us impartially, God looks at our differences and sees all of us as equally—uniquely—alike. Rather than striving against one another, we should strive to do the same.

Governing ourselves to view others as God sees us—with divine impartiality—humbles us to realize there’s no comparison between them and us.

Postscript: "Father’s Eyes"

This little Amy Grant tune packs quite a wallop by inspiring us to see one another as God sees us. It’s one of those songs that sticks with you—and becomes a tremendous help in moments when we’re tempted to look down on others, including those who look down at us.

Open Eyes

When he was at the table with them, he took bread, gave thanks, broke it and began to give it to them. Then their eyes were opened and they recognized him, and he disappeared from their sight. (Luke 24.30-31)

A Fleeting Figure

Unlike the mortal Jesus, attentive Companion and Leader of His followers, the glorified Christ exhibits notably different behavior in the interim between the Resurrection and Ascension. The Gospels portray the Risen Christ as a fleeting Figure Who comes and goes at will, visiting briefly with the disciples before vanishing into thin air. We don’t know if our impression is reliable, however, since Christ’s activities during this period go oddly undocumented. Excluding personal visions after the Ascension, the number of post-graveside sightings total six or seven—depending on whether one counts Paul’s mention of 500 who see the Risen Christ (1 Corinthians 15.6) as a singular event or reference to the Galilee reunion reported in Matthew and later editions of Mark.

Only John seems to acknowledge spotty information about where Christ is, what Christ says and does, and with whom, may strike readers as curiously unsettling. In a lunge at covering the bases, he includes a disclaimer: “Jesus performed many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not recorded in this book. But these are written that you may believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in his name.” (John 20.30-31) If we take John at his word, Christ’s earthly sojourn prior to Ascension is a busy time spent with the disciples, performing “many other signs.” Yet the admission he’s left out most of this final chapter merely heightens our sense that the mortal Jesus and glorified Christ are decidedly different in nature, as well as in how each relates to the disciples.

Blanks

That New Testament writers don’t elaborate further on distinctions between the human Jesus and Risen Christ would unnerve us no end—were it not for John’s statement. The most detail-obsessed Gospel writer informs us more detail and examples of Christ’s pre-Ascension activity aren’t useful. He explains, “I’m telling you enough to believe [“to continue to believe” is a better translation] Jesus’s resurrection confirms He is The Living Christ. Faith in this alone, without scads of corroborating evidence, is how you receive life in His name.” By design, John and the other writers under-report what transpires from Easter to Ascension and emphasize Christ’s elusive behavior. The blanks are put there on purpose to facilitate faith in the absence of extensive testimony and evidentiary proof. We’re supposed to live with unanswered questions, because that’s how faith works.

When we closely observe the disciples’ interactions with the Risen Christ, however, we’re stunned by how often they don’t realize Whom they’re seeing. At the tomb, Mary Magdalene first mistakes Christ for a gardener. For the longest time, two disciples traveling from Jerusalem to Emmaus after the Resurrection have no idea their fellow Traveler is Christ. Thomas looks at Christ face-to-face, yet neither recognizes the Risen Lord nor trusts what he sees without tangible experience. Seven disciples who go fishing initially are unaware a Stranger they spot on the beach is Christ. How is it possible so many see Christ and draw blanks? The disciples’ inability to identify Christ becomes the Gospels’ closing theme. And when we put that together with John’s explanation, the theme becomes obvious. Sight doesn’t enable belief; belief enables sight. That’s the difference the writers want to stress. In the end, every moment Jesus lives—from manger to tomb—points toward Christ’s power to heal our dependency on visual perception. After Easter, the story shifts from what’s different about Christ to what’s different about us because of Christ.

Profoundly Intimate

The mistaken-identity stories turn on the same pivot: Christ is ultimately revealed in profoundly intimate words or gestures. When Mary hears Christ speak her name, she believes and sees. When Thomas is invited to touch Christ’s wounds, he believes and sees. When the fishing disciples take Christ’s advice, move to the opposite side of the boat, and haul in more fish than their nets can hold, they believe and see. Yet the most vivid example of these moments occurs with two previously unknown disciples—Cleopas and his companion. In the wake of an all-too-real crucifixion and rumored resurrection, they return home to Emmaus. When Christ catches up to them, they’re sorting through recent events and pretty much resigned that following Jesus was good while it lasted, but there’s no future in hanging around now that He’s gone. Christ answers their misgivings by reviewing prophecies of the Messiah’s crucifixion and resurrection.

This is Theology 101 for any disciple—basic curriculum Jesus covers in depth numerous times. It starts coming back, even though they’re still oblivious that Christ is helping them. As they near Emmaus, they entreat their new Friend to stay with them and continue their conversation. Christ does something they recall Jesus doing many times, most recently at His final dinner with the disciples: “He took bread, gave thanks, broke it and began to give it to them. Then their eyes were opened and they recognized him.” (Luke 24.30-31) The gesture arouses faith that sees what rumors and theology can’t reveal. Once their Friend’s true identity is known, Christ vanishes. The two disciples’ faith is restored and they immediately rejoin the others.

If our faith is contingent on visibly recognizing Christ’s presence in our world and lives—having answers to all the questions and filling in all the blanks—we’ll never find wherewithal to believe. Visual perception can’t detect Christ for one reason: to dispel misplaced confidence in what we naturally see. We perceive Christ in word and gesture—the whisper of our names, invitation to touch an extended hand, counsel to abandon fruitless efforts and alter our ways, and the offer of food for our souls. Responding to what Christ says and does enables us to recognize Who Christ is. In every believer’s life there are times when what we observe hobbles our ability to identify Christ. That’s why we closely attend to profoundly intimate words and gestures that come only from Christ. Then belief happens. Then we see with open eyes.

Recognizing the Risen Christ happens when faith happens. Sight doesn’t enable belief. Belief enables sight.

Born in Zion

Indeed, of Zion it will be said, “This one and that one were born in her, and the Most High will establish her.” The LORD will write in the register of the peoples, “This one was born in Zion.” (Psalm 87.5-6)

Too Far

One can’t help wondering how the congregation reacts when the Sons of Korah—a musical brood David tasks with composing new hymns—trot out Psalm 87. The first stanza is terrific, an anthem to Jerusalem, which is at its zenith as Zion, the city of God crowned with Solomon’s breathtaking temple. But one imagines tilted heads, startled glances, and flat-out consternation as the song progresses. Are they hearing the lyrics correctly?

Dead-center of the psalm, the Korah Boys run down a short list of the Jews’ perennial adversaries: Rahab (a poetic allusion to Egypt), Babylon, Phlistia, Tyre, and Cush. With that, their hymn takes a surprising turn. Instead of proclaiming Jerusalem’s God-given superiority over her enemies, the song predicts she will claim them as her own: “Indeed, of Zion it will be said, ‘This one and that one were born in her, and the Most High will establish her.’” (v5)

Who are they kidding? Sure, Jerusalem’s rapid ascent as a glittering capitol increases the odds the Jews will finally win their neighbors’ respect. And it's entirely possible that people whose ancestors sought to destroy the city will one day peaceably conduct business and secure friendships with its citizens. But the Sons of Korah go too far by envisioning a time will ever come when Jews regard former foes as family. Other than big-city culture and (recently acquired) sophistication, they have nothing in common with these outsiders. They worship different gods. They eat different food. They subscribe to different values. They dress differently, act differently, think differently, talk differently, and hold different political views.

An Act of God

Accepting outsiders—former adversaries, no less—expects the Jews to disavow their hatred of lifestyles that contradict everything they believe is holy. It ain’t gonna happen. Rejecting any variance from their way of life is baked into the national character. Besides, too much blood has been shed to protect Jewish traditions to back down now. The Sons of Korah apparently anticipate outraged response to their anthem, because they end its main chorus with a sobering fact. Acceptance is not an option Jerusalem has. It’s an act of God: “The LORD will write in the register of the peoples: ‘This one was born in Zion.’” (v6)

No one understands the transformative power of acceptance better than the Korah Boys. By all rights they have no business being near the Temple, let alone leading its worship. Their patriarch launched a revolt against Moses that ended in horrible death for him and his supporters; the earth split open and swallowed them alive. (Numbers 16) What’s more, the uprising is especially notorious for being a congregational coup: Korah tried to seize political power by forcing his way into the priesthood. Yet God’s grace becomes evident in the musical talents God invests in his survivors. They possess gifts that God’s people need. The unthinkable happens. David puts the Sons of Korah in charge of sacred songs, ordaining them as ministers in God’s house. They’re chief among the instruments God employs to reshape Israel’s liturgical customs and mindset to reflect its new era of spiritual maturity.

Thus, the topic of birthright is a vitally important to the Sons of Korah. For God to rewrite Jerusalem’s story to ensure their nemeses’ acceptance transcends religious, social, and political agenda. It attests to God’s grace—grace the Sons know first-hand. Based on their experience, it’s ridiculous to say, “It ain’t gonna happen,” when they know it can and will be done. By reframing inclusion as an act of God secured by divine writ, they change the conversation from piety to obedience. They ask, “Dare we cling to religious prejudices that defy God’s will?”

Embracing Spiritual Maturity

Not only are the Korah Boys confident inclusion can and will happen, they know how it happens. Psalm 87’s coda is their testimony of the impact God’s grace has on all who are welcomed into the faith community: “As they make music they will sing, ‘All my fountains are in you.’” (v7) Inclusion isn’t about embracing people we fear. It’s about embracing spiritual maturity that conquers fear—a new way of life all around. It calls for new songs we’d never dream of singing before we outgrew our childishness, opened our gates—which, according to verse 2, God loves more than all our dwellings—and widened our borders to include everyone.

“All my fountains are in you” is the zinger, since Jerusalem’s water source sits outside the city. When the Sons of Korah introduce this song, inside her walls she’s as a dry as a bone. God desires to fix that by enlarging her family with children she never knew she had—never conceived of having. God intends to force Zion’s expansion by rewriting her story. Her suspicious nature has blinded her to talents God invested in people she needs—people God wants to use to usher in her growth.

What Makes Radical Inclusion “Radical”

The Sons of Korah open their central chorus with, “Glorious things are said of you, city of God.” (v3) Yet by the song’s end, it’s very clear greater glory awaits her if—and it’s a big “if”—she overcomes her phobias and hatred in obedience to God’s will. Her success doesn’t rest on whether or not outsiders join the family. That’s a done deal; God sees to it. Zion’s future is solely predicated on her willingness to honor God’s desires and intentions. As history proves, stubborn refusal to obey repeatedly results in tragic downfall.

When we transpose Psalm 87 to a contemporary setting, Zion becomes the Church and its rivals become marginalized believers who frighten those clinging to heterosexist, patriarchal traditions. Through the centuries, the Church has constructed elaborate dwellings and doctrines—and shed much blood—to defend its insular way of life. But God loves its gates more than all its dwellings and has plans to expand the Church’s reach by rewriting her story, equalizing one and all by divine birthright. It’s time to make new music, sing new songs, and make room for new fountains.

While the inclusion battle rages, both sides fail to acknowledge their conflict is futile. What we do, believe, or prefer is ultimately immaterial. By divine writ, we are all born in Zion. We’re all members of God’s family. We all have divinely endowed gifts God wants to use and God’s people need to mature and grow. No one's shut out. Everyone's in. So the real issue isn’t whether we accept or reject one another, but whether or not we obey God’s will. One side needs to open up and the other needs to show up. Obedience, and only that, is what makes radical inclusion “radical.”

“Here is the church; here is the steeple; open the doors and see all the people” is more than a charming nursery rhyme. According to Psalm 87, it’s an act of God secured by divine writ.

Postscript: "How Many?"

(May 5; 4:30 PM CDT) Just before checking comments this afternoon, I opened an email with a link to the video below. In it, Minnesota State Representative Steve Simon challenges the wisdom and religiosity of his state's opponents to marital equality with moving--and remarkably sensible--conviction. The friend who forwarded the video link to me wrote, "Very eloquently put! Or better yet, just plain friendly!" I contemplated attaching the video here, but hadn't reached a decision, when I opened comments to find Sherry quoting Rep. Simon in her response. So, as the Bible says, "Out of the mouth of two witnesses..." I believe you'll find this well worth sharing.

Now What?

A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another. (John 13.34-35)

The First Order

Last Thursday I finally tracked down the answer to a question that skates through my mind every Holy Week: What does “Maundy” mean? Since it’s exclusively attached to Thursday’s commemorations of The Last Supper—the symbol-laden repast in which Jesus prepares the disciples for His death—I thought it might be an archaic term for “mourning.” Or perhaps it was derived from the same root as “mundane,” underscoring Good Friday’s Eve as Jesus’s last night of “normal,” i.e. mortal, existence. With Holy Communion as the focus of Maundy Thursday rites—celebrating the Eucharist’s open table (rather than the Old Testament’s hidden altar) as Christianity’s central metaphor—surely the word alludes, in some fashion, to the ultimate sacrifice that made redemptive grace possible. Not so.

“Maundy” derives from the Latin “mandatum” (“commandment”), the first word in the invocation traditionally spoken at Holy Thursday Mass: Mandatum novum do vobis ut diligatis invicem sicut dilexi vos. Or, “A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.” (John 13.34) While Maundy Thursday liturgies have evolved to emphasize the Eucharistic precedent—in some cases, also recreating the washing of disciples’ feet that precedes it—it fascinates me our ancestors placed top priority on the new edict, to the point they named the day “Commandment Thursday.” Unlike modern believers, whose exposure to unjust atrocities and psychology’s blame-games steers Holy Week emotions toward guilt and regret, it appears medieval Christians celebrated Maundy Thursday as the start of something new—the new commandment Jesus issues, the new covenant sworn in His blood, and the new life that forever redefines mortality. Thus, Jesus’s final mandate to the disciples at table becomes the first order of business for all disciples who join them at table: “Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.”

Unity and Continuity

Hindsight equips us to detect the new command’s urgent reasoning. Yet it completely escapes the disciples. They can’t possibly know they’ll be Leaderless in less than 24 hours, a crucial concern for Jesus, as they’re by nature a quarrelsome, unruly bunch. His handpicked successor, Peter, is impetuous, given to rash talk and even rasher reactions—not someone who works best under pressure. James and John shamelessly jockey for position. In Mark 10, after Jesus predicts His death a third time, they respond by requesting, “Let one of us sit at your right and the other at your left in your glory.” (v36) Judas, of course, has already checked out mentally and will soon permanently remove himself from the company. Yet his indignation at Jesus’s permitting a woman to anoint Him with costly ointment and the extreme action he takes because of it surely heighten the group’s tensions. Mary Magdalene’s invaluable role as Easter’s first messenger confirms her prominence. Her influence among Jesus’s female disciples is evident when she organizes and leads their predawn procession to the Tomb. She too will have a voice in their future and sizeable support for her opinions. Jesus’s mother and siblings will need to be consulted as well, while the remaining disciples form alliances based on friendships, family loyalties, and blind faith. The outlook for future stability is not good.

With Jesus presumably dead and gone—His promised resurrection never quite sticks in their minds—the disciples’ immediate question will be, “Now what?” How do they implement His teaching without His guidance? Who among them understands it well enough to build on? Who would deign to take charge in His absence? Jesus knows His disciples better than they. His physical presence is their only bond. Without it, they’re destined to splinter into competing factions. Weaknesses and vanities will destroy their unity of purpose to continue His work. He has tasked them to start something new—a revolutionary way of life founded on faith in the impossible, driven by love’s power to defy earthly logic and mortal terror, even the fear of death. Bearing these concerns in mind, He answers the “Now what” question in advance with a new commandment that ensures unity (“Love another”) and continuity (“as I have loved you”). Albeit not without tremendous difficulty and occasional failure, the Apostles’ love for one another becomes their sustaining strength and most powerful witness as true disciples. They create something new and make it last by replicating Christ’s patient, selfless, and unequivocal love for each of them and every believer who joins their ranks.

Commandment Day

Although the Church’s emergence as an unparalleled spiritual, cultural, and political institution has fostered grievous disregard—and blatant disobedience—of Christ’s mandate, it remains a cardinal rule no faithful disciple can ignore. In fact, given how criminally we’ve abused the Maundy charter, determination to honor it at all costs has never been more urgent. We’re by nature a quarrelsome, unruly bunch. Foolhardy refusal to place Christ-like love for one another above human ambition has repaid us with crippling hatred, suspicion, prejudice, and divisiveness. Deficient discipline to love each other as Jesus commands—patiently, selflessly, and unequivocally—has turned our attention from creating something new to perpetuating antiquated ideas and customs. We fight to the death, figuratively and literally, to protect the Church’s “integrity,” never realizing animosities in our walls give lie to the integrity of our witness in the world.

Absence of love is why we feel no compunction about fighting over doctrine and dogma. It’s why we splice Scripture to slice each other to shreds. It’s why Christ’s principles of compassion, justice, and equality get trampled in pursuit of self-idolatry, advantage, and conformity. It’s why one denomination conceals and excuses pedophiles, another funds a proposition to deny same-sex partners their Constitutional right of legal union, and numerous others pollute their pulpits and pews with inflammatory rhetoric about anyone or anything that contradicts their views. Dissect our sources of conflict to your liking. In the end, they all expose deafness to Christ’s new command. If we truly love one another as Jesus loved us, we’ll die for one another before differences destroy us, our witness as Christ’s disciples, and our commitment to Christ’s work.

And so, by definition, the Maundy Thursday we observed one week ago—and will hopefully observe to the end of time—was originally ordained to coalesce around Jesus’s mandate for unified love. It’s the spiritual surrogate of His physical Presence that seals our common bond. It’s the supernatural force that transforms the Eucharist into Holy Communion and exalts the thankless task of washing another’s feet into an act of grateful humility. It signifies the creation of something new, something we make new with each new day. Once we grasp the gravity of Christ’s new command, we’ll no doubt echo the disciples’ question. Now what? Perhaps we start by liberating “Maundy” from Holy Week and celebrating every day God gives us as “Commandment Day.”

A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.

In obedience to Christ’s new command, we greet each dawn as the start of something new made possible by our uncompromised love for one another.

Then Comes Sunday...

Two rebels were crucified with him, one on his right and one on his left. Those who passed by hurled insults at him, shaking their heads. (Matthew 27.38-39)

Bound to Happen

Jesus enters and exits human life—and spends most of His time in between—where He shouldn’t be, with people He shouldn’t be around. At least, that would be the landslide opinion if He were alive today. It’s certainly true in His time. Naturally, His message and miracles provoke criticism. He persistently crosses lines by shaving taboos from Scripture and religious practice. He builds His ministry-launching Sermon on the Mount by taking misinterpreted texts apart and reconstructing them, not as hard-and-fast divine edicts but sacred guidelines. (“You have heard it said… but I say…”) Urgent demand, not time-held convention, drives His decisions to heal and help. A surprising number of miracles set off controversy because He performs them on the Sabbath! Yet when critics can find nothing specific to oppose, Jesus’s overall behavior gives them plenty grist to grind. Instead of conforming to holy-man expectations, He’s always in the wrong company, hanging with “sinners”—a catchall for pagans, lawbreakers, and diseased people banned from Temple worship or banished from community.

So seldom is Jesus where He should be, with people He should be around, when He does enter that realm, ugly scenes break out. When He returns to His synagogue in Nazareth, His sermon enrages His hometown to the point it tries to kill Him. No sooner does the Triumphal Entry wind down than Jesus heads for the Temple, where He ousts merchants and moneychangers, lashing together Isaiah 56 and Jeremiah 7 to declare, “My house will be called a house of prayer, but you are making it a den of robbers.” The implications, which Temple nabobs instantly get, are huge. Isaiah 56 is God’s promise of inclusion for eunuchs and foreigners; Jeremiah 7 is God’s outcry against Israel’s hypocrisy, greed, and social injustice.

Knowing what first-century Jews find impossible to believe, that Jesus is God Incarnate, we cheer Him on. Yet would we be any less outraged if a pastor were constantly seen in “wrong” places with “wrong” people—not mingling with them as a do-gooder, but befriending them and loving them without condition? Would we tolerate one who challenged our sincerity at every turn? How soon would phones ring and emails land charging her/him with reckless behavior and apostasy? How long before consensus agreed he/she had to go? Although Jesus’s adversaries realize He’s Big Trouble from the first, it takes three-and-a-half years to get rid of Him. Today, we’d probably finish Him off in a few months. We’d shake our heads in bafflement over why so many fell for His charisma and radical ideas, when anyone with half a brain could tell something about Him wasn’t right. Hearing He’d run afoul of the law, lost every legal appeal, and been executed as a common criminal, a rebel crucified with two other rebels, we’d shrug, “It was bound to happen.” Some would go so far as sarcastically describing Jesus’s fate as poetic justice. “He died like He lived—hanging with the wrong crowd.”

As It Began

On that last point, we’d be partially correct. When we review the Life hideously snuffed out on Calvary’s hill, we discern uncanny poetry in Its finish. Jesus’s mortal existence follows a divine rhyme scheme by which it ends precisely as it began—in an overcrowded, unfriendly city during a national event, in humiliating, unwholesome circumstances, surrounded by irregulars. It all comes full circle. The human journey commenced in a kindly offered barn concludes in a kindly offered tomb. Yet we underestimate the polarities of Jesus’s birth and death by reducing them to poetic clichés like “He died as He lived,” or “He was born to die.” Everything we observe in Bethlehem confirms Jesus was born to live as He lived, which explains why He dies as He lived. The intricacy with which God plots the details of Christ’s life proves Jesus comes to the world to embody the full extent of God’s love and acceptance. If the fabled Nazarene were born in the friendly confines of home and laid to rest in His family crypt, we could describe His life as one committed to the poor, sick, and rejected of society. We could rationalize His identification with marginalized people as altruistic charity. But nothing in Jesus’s personal history, from birth to life, remotely indicates His habitual presence in wrong company and repeated sightings in wrong places are conscious ploys to highlight social misery or condemn those who cause it.

Jesus is always in the wrong company because that’s where He belongs. He’s one of them by birthright—a Lowlife of questionable paternity born to homeless parents who immediately become political targets and go underground. His dubious origins permit childhood friends and neighbors to turn on Him; Nazareth cries for His death long before Jerusalem does. He lives hand-to-mouth, relying on strangers’ hospitality without benefit of social status or family support. (At one point, He’s such an embarrassment to His family, they think He’s gone mad and try to reel Him in.) Not once is Jesus shocked when His alleged “betters” confront and ridicule Him. Not once does concern for reputation goad Him to back away from tax collectors, volatile personalities, unrefined men, women with sketchy backgrounds, or shortsighted radicals. No, He seeks them out as constant companions and travels openly with them, calling them disciples. They’re drawn to Jesus, not because they admire His desire to be like them, but because He’s one of them. They’re safe around Him, understood by Him, and free to be real with Him. They drop their nets and quit their pasts, trusting Him by virtue of recognizing on sight He’ll never desert them. His meager circumstances will never allow Him to forsake the margins His critics revile Him for embracing.

From our side of history, we observe Calvary’s torment and indignity with horror. Everything about Jesus’s abuse is unjustly beneath Him. Yet to all but His most loyal followers, the manner of His death seems justly inevitable. He dies as He lived, in the wrong company—a born Outsider Whose audacity to speak truth to power sets His collision course with a cruel cross. And that’s that. By Friday night, hardly a soul notices He’s missing. Saturday comes and goes without disruption. Then comes Sunday. The rumor mill spins with news that turns the world inside out. Jesus may have been born to live among the low and oppressed. He may have died as One of them. But He’s not at all like any of them. He’s not like anyone who ever lived. He’s defeated Death. Jesus is alive.

A New Reality

Easter rests so far beyond human comprehension, we understand it no better today than did Mary Magdalene, Peter, and everyone else who met the Risen Christ or gazed into His empty tomb. Some of humanity’s brightest minds have invested lifetimes attempting to prove its reality; others have done the same hoping to debunk it. None has succeeded on either front. The resurrection confounds logic, science, history, and poetry. Easter is a thing so distinctly unto itself it has neither reason nor rhyme. Easter simply is. Either we believe it, or we don’t. Yet if we dismiss it as too incredible to believe, with the Risen Christ goes all meaning we draw from the birth, life, and death—i.e., the mortality—of Jesus. He becomes the greatest of all prophets, idealists, and progressives, the Best of the best, not Least of the least, which is precisely what Bethlehem destined Him to be. To enshrine Jesus as the Ultimate Do-Gooder, Who willingly identified and defended the poor and oppressed is to seal off His connection to humankind. A Jesus Who volunteered to be like us is a far different thing than a Jesus Who obediently became one of us.

The destitute Birth begetting a dispossessed Life that ends in dishonorable Death reveals us at our lowest and worst, as oppressed and oppressor. It’s a saga with which every human, regardless of status, can relate, because no mortal completely eludes social anxieties and rejection. None of us achieves such exalted status we’re above pushing or being pushed. The cross reminds us our lives are designed so birth, death, and our time between them rhyme in uncanny ways. Easter—not Calvary—changes that. It opens a new reality that defies reason and rhyme. It can’t be explained, but must be believed. Death’s defeat offers something infinitely more powerful than abstract “life.” It invites us to live as Jesus lived, free of fear about who we are, how we’re viewed, or what becomes of us after we die. What becomes of Jesus after He dies—the phenomenal transformation that raises the lowly Mortal into the triumphant Christ—is God’s promise to every one of us. As formidable as life’s pressures and defeats may be, they’re never final. Jesus, always in the wrong company, always in the wrong place, lives as He is born and dies as He lived, an Outsider with no social or religious means of ever getting “In.” Then comes Sunday…

It all makes sense—the rhyme and reason in Jesus’s birth, life, and death—until a new reality emerges on Easter morning.