Destiny vs Destination

Thomas said to Him, “Lord, we do not know where You are going. How can we know the way?” Jesus said to him, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through Me.” (John 14.5-6)

Finding Oneself

I met a most fascinating woman many years ago—so long ago I don’t recall her name or the occasion that brought us together. But our conversation was unlike any I’ve ever had, because her story was unlike any I’d ever heard. She was near or past 70, and had just sailed around the world on a series of tramp steamers. The instant I heard this, my movie brain kicked in. I envisioned her voyage in black-and-white, with her wandering through one exotic port of call after another. Yet when I asked her what the experience was like, she said, “It was tedious.” I would imagine an adventure on that scale being anything but tedious, I said. “Oh, but it is,” she told me, “because of the scale of it. Most of the time is spent at sea on a working ship, with a crew that more or less puts up with you. I read a lot of books, spent most of my time alone, and stared at nothing but blue sea. And while I did see a lot of the world, the touring became secondary to the rest of it. I learned that traveling the world—flying here and there—is much different than sailing around it. You have no idea how big the planet is until you do that.”

Her appearance hinted that she was a woman of means. So I asked if the adventure ever got so tedious that she considered forgetting the whole thing and flying home. “The first two or three times we put into port I battled that,” she told me. “But I eventually realized I’d bit off something bigger than sailing from point to point. The trip stopped being about any particular destination. It became about me, and what I was learning about myself in the middle of nowhere. I began to understand time and space, thinking and not thinking in new ways. I learned how to wake up every day with no greater goal than letting the day be, and being in the day.” Though she didn’t articulate it as such, her comments rang with a sense of destiny, the process of finding oneself—in her case, of finding her place in the world by discovering how big the world really is.

Letting Each Day Be

In many ways, Lent calls us into a similar adventure. We set out across a vast wilderness that may increase our opportunity to experience new and unusual things. But, for the most part, it’s a solitary, increasingly tedious journey that hones our understanding of time and space, thinking and not thinking, listening for every new sound, and most of all, letting each day be while we learn to be in the day. The longer we traverse Lent’s monotonous expanse, we’re less concerned about its destination than coming to grips with our destiny. Being here, wherever we are now, subsumes our concerns about getting there, wherever that may be—whether it’s the cross and empty tomb, or finding a place in our Christian experience that we’ve never before reached.

The struggle between fixating over destination and finding one’s destiny is as old as the Christian faith. It’s the crux of Jesus’s exchange with Thomas in John 14. Jesus is prepping the disciples for His imminent death and departure, telling them that He’s going away to prepare a place for them. “I will come again and will take you to Myself, so that where I am, there you may be also. And you know the way to the place where I am going,” He says in verses 3 and 4. Thomas has no idea where Jesus is going and he panics to think he won’t reach the destination. “How can we know the way?” he asks. (v5) His question triggers one of Jesus’s most frequently quoted statements: “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through Me.” (v6)

Garbled

Regrettably, this is one of those perfect storms where context, translation, and emphasis have got so garbled it’s possible—perhaps even likely—to read the passage and come away with the exact opposite of what Jesus is saying. To sort this out, let’s start by acknowledging concessions we have to make. With the Gospels being written roughly 20-50 years after Christ’s ascension (in John’s case, 50), we accept that Jesus’s statements, much like my recounting the conversation above, are approximations based on memory, not precise quotes. One concedes they’re more apt to be condensations of lengthier talks in which Jesus explained His teachings in greater depth. Then we must also allow for additional fuzz to accumulate by way of translation. Often what began as rhetorical gets transmuted into something more literal, as with this passage.

Jesus starts by comparing God’s kingdom to a “house” with “many dwelling places” (v2)—i.e., a spiritual realm with room for all. But the King James Bible and other versions translate “dwelling places” as “mansions” or “rooms,” suggesting a literal location that sounds more like a final, celesital destination than an ever-present spiritual abode. The emphasis shifts from Jesus leading us into a new way of life—which is how the original texts read—to a foretelling of life after death and the Second Coming. In this context, Thomas’s question makes sense. Who knows how that’s supposed to work? Thus, Jesus’s response is taken as an explanation that contradicts what He’s actually saying. “I am the way, truth, and life; no one comes to the Father except through Me,” sounds a whole lot like, “Unless you’re a Christian, you’re not going to Heaven.”

Jesus expressly is not talking about Heaven and most definitely isn’t putting up guard-rails that deny access to God. He’s talking about a truthful way of life, describing the believer’s destiny in life, not a destination after death. He’s telling us we can access God by following His way, believing His truth, and receiving His life. And here’s the final twist: Jesus is speaking as God, because Jesus is God. To come to Jesus is to come to God. Not only in this passage, but throughout the Gospels—particularly in John—we hear Jesus dispute the idea of exclusion, based on His understanding as God.

One With God

In John 10, He proclaims, “I am the good shepherd. I know My own and My own know Me, just as the Father knows Me and I know the Father. I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to My voice.” (v14-16; emphasis added) Jesus’s comments about radical inclusion split His audience. John says many of them say, “He has a demon and is out of His mind;” others, who hear the promise of all-inclusive love and acceptance, protest, “These are not the words of One Who has a demon!” (v20-21) Not long after this, Jesus reengages the religious set and takes up the inclusion topic again. Verses 26-30: “You do not believe, because you do not belong to My sheep. My sheep hear My voice. I know them, and they follow Me. I give them eternal life and they will never perish. No one will snatch them out of My hand. What My Father has given Me is greater than all else, and no one can snatch it out of the Father’s hand. The Father and I are One.” (Emphasis added)

Let’s read this closely. “Sheep that do not belong to this fold” are people outside the strictures of religious law and tradition. Yet they listen to Jesus. Jesus knows them. To them He gives (present tense) eternal life—life now and always—and promises, “they will never perish” (future tense). Destiny, not destination. “What My Father has given Me is greater than all else,” Jesus says. Anything we point to in an attempt to deny Jesus’s message of inclusion is irrelevant. Any doctrine that says anyone who believes will be rejected—whether by creed or creation—is dismantled. “No one will snatch them out of My hand,” Jesus declares. “Nor will the power to include them be snatched from the Father’s hand, because the Father and I are One.” (Those clinging to a masculine God should note Jesus’s word for “One” is gender neutral, confirming God’s inclusive will and nature.)

A Present Calling

This teaching of inclusive unity between God and Jesus, between God, Jesus, and us, climaxes in Gethsemane, where Jesus prays, “I ask not only on behalf of these, but also on behalf of those who will believe in Me through their word, that they may all be one. As You, Father, are in Me and I am in You, may they also be in Us, so that the world may believe that You have sent Me. The glory that You have given Me I have given them, so that they may be one as We are One. I in them and You in Me, that they may become completely one, so that the world may know that You have sent Me and have loved them even as You have loved Me. Father, I desire that those also, whom You have given Me, may be with Me where I am, to see My glory, which You have given Me because You loved Me before the foundation of the world.” (John 17.20-24; emphasis added)

Jesus prays that we access a state of being that witnesses His divinity and God’s love to the world. It’s a present calling to access our destiny in Christ, to be united with God as One. Jesus prays that we who believe the Good News passed down by the Apostles will be with Him where He is, to experience His glory revealed in that moment, when Death hovers and the promise of Life will not tremble—to know that God loves us from the dawn of time and will not relinquish that love for all of eternity.

Heaven sure sounds grand; eons and eons in God’s unfiltered presence, where death and hatred and suffering no longer exist. But—oh my—how much grander is the promise that we can access our destiny in God now, that we accept Christ’s way, truth, and life and know that we belong to God! To come to Christ is to enter Christ, to be received as one with God and to live in the world as sheep of a defiantly loving Shepherd. Wherever Lent takes us, I pray we discover our breathtaking destiny in this life as we go through its process.

Lent’s desert expedition opens us to the realization that coming to Christ is about accepting our destiny in present life, rather than focusing solely on a far-off, future destination.

Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/03/06/destiny-vs-destination/.

Postscript: Questions 10 & 11

How does accepting our destiny in this life—rather than focusing our energies on reaching a far-off, future destination—reshape our concept of faith?

What does accepting our destiny in Christ require of us in the here and now?

Birth of an Era

The Pharisees said to one another, “See, this is getting us nowhere. Look how the whole world has gone after him!” (John 12.19)

What’s Happening

A bout of spring flu the past few days irritated me twice over by preventing me from posting on Palm Sunday. Opening Monday’s Lectionary to find John’s account of the event brought a sigh of relief, as he connects the dots between Lazarus’s resurrection and the impromptu coronation initiating Jesus's final week of mortal life. And it’s a rollercoaster by any standard, a white-knuckle frenzy of dazzling ascents and dizzying plummets held to the tracks by the centrifugal force of divine destiny propelled by human hatred.

At first, the brevity of John’s treatment surprises us—more for its abrupt departure in style than glossing over information the other Gospels highlight (procurement of the donkey Jesus rides into Jerusalem, His remark about “rocks and stones” singing His praises when Pharisees disdain the crowd’s exuberance). Up to now, John is to the rest what long-form maestros like Norman Mailer and Susan Sontag are to newspaper reporters. He’s a poet with a sharp eye for telling details that bring hidden nuances to light. While Matthew, Mark, and Luke outpace him in scope, their concise, linear approach primarily focuses on what happened. John’s episodic structure and specificity—time of day, social dynamics, personal histories, and so on—illuminate what’s happening. Subtext is everything to him, which is why we read him for truths that emerge in his lengthy scenes and metaphorical dialogue without burdening him with historical reliability. So it’s a bit startling when John squeezes this signal moment in Jesus’s story—the proverbial point of no return that flips everything upside-down—into seven verses offering little in the way of drama or history.

Full-Blown Crisis

It appears John condenses his narrative for dramatic effect, inferring by the time Jesus reaches the capitol, the conspiracy against Him and surge of adulation are at critical mass. Although He’s escaped assassination attempts before, Jesus can’t avoid what awaits Him in Jerusalem. Curiously, however, John back-times the genesis of this fateful moment to Lazarus’s resurrection in nearby Bethany. There Jesus’s indisputable authority over Death unleashes a tidal wave of new followers, on the eve of Passover no less, when Jerusalem will teem with excitable provincials sure to be swept up by the sudden furor. This Self-styled Rabbi from Nazareth has been a problem from the start. But now the powers that be realize the Lazarus feat has created a full-blown crisis.

To make matters worse, John tightens the screws by inserting a scene in which Mary, Lazarus’s sister, anoints Jesus with expensive perfume before the Triumphal Entry, thus setting Judas Iscariot’s betrayal in motion to coincide with Jesus’s enemies’ urgency to eliminate Him. (Matthew and Mark place the controversy later in the week, near the Last Supper; Luke puts it earlier in Jesus’s ministry with no mention of Judas; all three locate it in the home of another Bethany resident, Simon the Leper, and don’t identify the woman who honors Jesus with her costly gesture. Ergo, discrepancies abound across the board.) The chief priests essentially declare a state of emergency; in typical political overkill, they scheme to end the problem by murdering Jesus and Lazarus. Meanwhile, the Pharisees—those enthusiastic enforcers of religious order—toss in the towel. “This is getting us nowhere,” they concede. “Look how the whole world has gone after Him!” (John 12.19)

Not One Word

This being John’s version, we fully expect to hear from Jesus as the ominous storm coalesces around Him. Is this not the Gospel that defines Jesus as “the Word made flesh”? (John 1.14) Is Jesus not at His most eloquent, probing, and assertive in John’s narrative? Does He not consistently proclaim, “I am,” in these pages? “I am the Bread of Life” (6.35), “the Light of the World” (8.12), “the Gate” (10.9), “the Good Shepherd” (10.11), “the Resurrection and the Life” (11.25), “the Way, the Truth, and the Life” (14.6), and “the Vine” (15.5)—boldly (to many, heretically) declaring He is God, the I AM of Exodus, Who ordains Moses to liberate the Hebrews? What does Jesus say to His disciples, His fans, and His enemies while seated on a young donkey, making His way to Jerusalem on a road paved with palms of victory and garments of praise? As John tells it, not one word.

John takes Matthew’s lead, underscoring the Messianic import of Jesus’s mode of transportation: “See, your king is coming, seated on a donkey’s colt.” (Zechariah 9.9) The donkey is a loaded symbol, signifying the wealth and nobility of its rider, whose shoes never graze the ground, while also a stark contrast to horses exclusively employed for warfare. The colt’s youth heightens the effect; it’s an untried, untamed beast, verifying Jesus’s docile strength as a gentle Master. And, still, the absence of Jesus’s voice in John pierces the majestic aura of Zechariah’s Sovereign to pinpoint Isaiah’s Sacrifice: “He was led like a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before its shearers is silent, so he did not open his mouth.” (53.7) The other Gospels will get there as well, when Jesus refuses to answer His accusers in Herod’s court. But John’s unusual decision to mute Jesus completely—withholding any comment about the crowd’s adulation or reproach for the Pharisees’ outrage at its raucous behavior—fairly explodes with bone-chilling subtext. This isn’t a coronation parade; it’s a funeral procession. These aren’t faithful adorers; they’re fickle adversaries. They will be the death of Him. Though they bellow, “Hosanna!”—“Save us!”—they’ll not spare His life. It’s a done deal before Jesus dismounts in Jerusalem. It’s over before it’s begun.

Life Now. Life Always.

For the first time in three-and-a-half years of constant bickering, Jesus and the Pharisees see eye-to-eye. Practically overnight, this thing has escalated in speed and scale until it’s bigger than all of them. Both He and His dogged detractors sense they’re witnessing the birth of an era, an irrevocable changing of the guard that will conclusively reverse humanity’s march into the abyss. Inescapable Death that ushers Jesus into Jerusalem will be met and answered by Indomitable Life—not the gossamer-and-pearly dream of Life Forever After, but Life Now, Indomitable Life Now. The resurrection of Lazarus was also a done deal when the Word Made Flesh declared, “I am the Resurrection and the Life.” John couldn’t be more correct in citing that statement—Life Hereafter and Life Here—as the catalyst for this tumultuous week we commemorate.

The Pharisees couldn’t be more right in their resignation. As they watch what’s happening before their eyes, what else is there to say but, “This is getting us nowhere”? Peter’s already expressed their sentiment in John 6.68: “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.” Of course, as the Pharisees observe, “The whole world has gone after Him!” Every step in Jesus’s natural existence has mounted to this pivotal event, when human lack acquiesces to divine longing: “For God so loved the world that God gave God’s one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send God’s Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through Him.”

This week we quit Lent’s desert and proceed into Jerusalem, not as palm-waving fanatics, but as true disciples eternally grateful to live in the Era of Resurrection and Life. We go after Jesus with billions across the ages, knowing anything less gets us nowhere. He has the words of eternal life. Life Now. Life Always. Indomitable Life that meets and answers Inescapable Death.

By muting Jesus, John replaces Zechariah’s Sovereign with Isaiah’s Sacrifice. But the Inescapable Death ushering Jesus into Jerusalem will be met and answered by Indomitable Life.

Way Over Yonder—A Personal Reflection

If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are to be pitied more than all men. (1 Corinthians 15.19)

Bishop Walter Hawkins

May 18, 1949 – July 11, 2010

Shelter

Last weekend started one way and ended another. Both events jettisoned me back to my teens. On Friday night, Walt and I attended Carole King and James Taylor’s “Troubadour Reunion” concert. On Sunday evening, I opened my Facebook page to see a link posted by my good friend, Calvin Bernard Rhone. It took me to a Washington Post article: Walter Hawkins dead: award-winning gospel singer was 61. Since the early 70's, if anyone asked, “Who are your greatest musical influences?” without a second’s thought, I’d reply, “Carole King and Walter Hawkins.” As a burgeoning church musician, both drew me with their keyboard and songwriting genius. I spent hours listening to their breakthrough albums, Carole’s Tapestry (1971) and Walter’s Love Alive (1975, recorded with the choir of the church he founded, Love Center), followed by countless hours at the piano, trying to replicate their sound.

With music playing such a forceful role in my life and my faith, their influence exceeded its impact on my tastes and musicianship, however. Their lyrics shared many similarities that moved me profoundly. Admittedly, Carole’s songs were secular and often directed to friends and lovers, while Walter’s spoke of or to God. Yet it’s irrefutable both came from comparable places in their hearts. For example, Carole sang:

Way over yonder is a place that I know

Where I can find shelter from the hunger and cold

And the sweet-tasting good life is so easily found

Way over yonder, that's where I'm bound

Walter’s choir sang:

If you want to know where I'm going

Where I'm going soon

If anybody asks you where I'm going

Where I'm going soon

I'm going up yonder to be with my Lord

Carole sang:

Winter, spring, summer, or fall

All you have to do is call

And I'll be there

You've got a friend

And, on Love Alive II (1978), Walter’s choir sang:

He will never forsake you

Even though He knows everything

There is to know about you

He's that kind of Friend

These were potent messages of hope for a teenager struggling to reconcile his faith and sexual orientation. Knitted together, Carole’s compassion and Walter’s confidence became the shelter in my storms—the place where I could steal away to hear angels sing hope and acceptance. It was where I heard Walter’s music say:

God has not promised me sunshine

That's not the way it's going to be

But a little rain mixed with God's sunshine

A little pain helps me appreciate the good times

Be grateful, and it will be all right

While Carole told me:

You've got to get up every morning

And show the world all the love in your heart

Then people will treat you better

You're gonna find, yes you will

That you're beautiful as you feel

The Far Shore

So I wept with joy on Friday, as Carole performed her life-giving songs, and again Sunday, on learning Walter was gone—up yonder, way over yonder. Yet in my tears, sorrow would not come. What I felt was no less than insurmountable joy. In song after song, sermon after sermon, he insisted he was bound way over yonder. I couldn’t have been happier for him. And in my happiness, I realized the depth of his impact on me. All along, he’d been my living example of 1 Corinthians 15.19: “If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are to be pitied more than all men.” I understood why I felt no alarm when I heard he was battling pancreatic cancer. I knew hope for him surpassed healing and longevity. He’d lived his life looking to the far shore.

Walter Hawkins taught me—and hundreds of thousands he graced with his music—to live in hope. Through him we grasped there’s no such thing as hopelessness when we place total faith in Christ’s word: “Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me. In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.” (John 14.1-3) Walter compelled us always to remember we’re going up yonder. Setting our sights on the far shore keeps life’s trials in perspective. Here’s how Carole framed it:

I know when I get there the first thing I'll see

Is the sun shining golden, shining right down on me

And trouble's gonna lose me, worry leave me behind

And I'll stand up proudly, in true peace of mind

When the Battle’s Over

While playing Walter’s records as a kid, I never imagined I'd personally know him. I lived in Chicago. He was in Oakland. He was world-famous. I was nobody. I moved to Los Angeles after college and a series of coincidences landed me in the heart of L.A.’s gospel community. A good friend was recording his choir’s first major album, which Walter offered to produce. We’d briefly met a few times in passing, mostly when I visited his church in Oakland. When he came to L.A. to record my friend’s album, I somehow ended up driving him around town. He talked excitedly about his upcoming project, Love Alive III, and when we happened to pass my church, West Angeles, he asked to stop so he could say hello to my pastor.

After he and Bishop Blake visited, Walter said, “Let’s go to the sanctuary. I want to play some of the new album for you.” I can’t describe the emotions rushing over me as I sat beside him, watching his hands glide over the keys, listening to songs the general public had yet to hear. I wanted to explain what this moment meant to me, yet I knew I wouldn’t do it justice. So I sat in silent awe. We’d been there a while when Walter said, “One more, then we need to go. You’re really going to like this one.” He sailed into a classic Walter Hawkins toe-tapper, “When the Battle is Over.” Here’s the second verse:

With tears streaming down, when there's no one around

And you feel like all hope is gone

Don't despair, God is right there

When the battle's over, when the battle's over

We're going home.

Walter’s passing compels me to encourage all of us to live in the bright hope of God’s promises. We will cry sometimes. At times, family and friends we look to won’t be there. We’ll feel like hope is lost. But we must never forget the hope we possess will ultimately triumph. We must always keep the far shore in sight. Way over yonder—that’s where we’re bound.

When the battle’s over, we’re going home.

"One of these mornings, it won’t be long, you’re gonna look for me and I’ll be gone on home!” Bishop Walter Hawkins sings, “When the Battle is Over.” (Choir conducted by his brother, Edwin Hawkins.)

Identity Switch

Since the children have flesh and blood, he too shared in their humanity so that by his death he might destroy him who holds the power of death—that is, the devil—and free those who all their lives were held in slavery by their fear of death. (Hebrews 2.14-15)

Transition to the Dark Side

The further we go into Holy Week, what’s actually transpiring becomes more mysterious. In a way, these days approaching Christ’s execution serve as a transition to the dark side of everything we celebrate at Christmas. The fulcrum of time has been repositioned so the emphasis of John 1.14—“The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us”—shifts from “Word” to “flesh.” The innocent Babe asleep on the hay is a full-grown Man facing certain death. His days are numbered. Yes, one might say, they’ve always been numbered. He’s always known this. So have we. Yet, as we do with everyone, we set aside this eventuality to appreciate His life. Now, as we watch the rapid spin of events intended to destroy Jesus, we fear for Him. We flinch at every caustic encounter with the powers that be. We tense up when Judas is mentioned. We get frustrated with the obtuse lack of vigilance in the other disciples.

Jesus will defeat death. His mortal body will be transformed in the grave and He will be resurrected as The Eternal Christ. Even so, this week, cognitive belief and spiritual insight fight hard against natural, subconscious fear of death. What we’ve acknowledged in an abstract manner grows more palpable by the minute. We’re increasingly aware of the mystery taking shape before us. The God Who elected to become like us suddenly, irrevocably is us. He will not escape sin's death penalty. His flesh will tear, His bones will ache, His blood will flow, and finally, His heart will stop. The identity switch will be complete. The bright night and angel song that started the process will give way to a black afternoon. From the darkness a barely recognizable voice will cry, “It is finished!” And while we track the divine logic of this, its reality eludes us. Clarity of the transition gets lost in an impenetrable murk of anguish and amazement.

Metaphors for Metamorphosis

The mystery of Christ’s Incarnation—God lowering Himself to become flesh so we can rise above it, submitting to death to defeat it, bearing our resemblance to restore our reflection of Him—thwarted the prophets who foretold it as well as New Testament writers charged with unraveling it. We repeatedly find them grasping at metaphors for metamorphosis. Isaiah 11.1 compares Him to “a Branch” that grows from “the stump of Jesse.” Paul calls Him “a servant, being made in human likeness.” (Philippians 2.7) In numerous places, Jesus is the Lamb of God Who assumes mortality to die as the ultimate sacrifice for sin. In Hebrews, He takes on dual roles—the High Priest Who officiates the sacrifice and the Offering itself. Before delving into interlaced complexities of these two metaphors, however, the writer establishes the fundamental metamorphosis by dispensing with metaphor altogether.

Referring to our mortal condition, the writer says, “Since the children have flesh and blood, he too shared in their humanity.” The reason for removing the metaphorical filter has nothing to do with inability to find a suitable one. (If you’ve spent any time in Hebrews, you know keeping up with its similes and cross-metaphors is a quite a job.) The writer wants us to absorb the identity switch in the baldest, most literal terms, just stopping short of asking us to pinch ourselves and feel the same flesh Christ wore, to see the same blood rise to the surface of our skin. The author explains why literal transformation is necessary: “So that by his death he might destroy him who holds the power of death—that is, the devil—and free those who all their lives were held in slavery by fear of death.” This week, more than any other, exacts physical identification with Jesus. We anticipate His suffering in our flesh the same way He empathizes with our frailty through His flesh. Hebrews says the mortal link we share to the death allows Christ to destroy the power of death that enslaves us with fear.

Somehow

Some may question if it’s really that important to grasp the identity switch in such a literal, tactile way. And it’s possible many may come nearer to comprehending it metaphorically. But I personally believe, yes, it’s really that important, which is why metaphors don’t work as well for me. I need to feel Christ “in the flesh” to vivify what’s involved in sharing my humanity—the bow to suffering, the endurance of emotional and physical torment, the doubt in God’s love and wisdom, the agony of injustice and rejection, and the lonely fear of finality. I don’t need a palpable comparison to appreciate the extremity of Christ’s sacrifice, however. That requires no amplification. As the week progresses, it’s important for my physical connection with Jesus to intensify so I can internalize the final exchange—natural extinction replaced by supernatural existence—in my flesh, my mind, my being.

“I want to know Christ,” Paul writes in Philippians, “and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, and so, somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead.” (3.11-12) Knowing Jesus and the power of resurrection comes when we switch identities with Him by sharing His humanity via fellowship with His suffering. Rising trepidation of what He will battle in His flesh is more than guilt-infused dread. It’s an autonomic key to knowledge that somehow destroys fear of death with confidence in resurrection. Somehow. This mystery we’re privileged to explore is one we’ll never solve.

The mortal link—the shared humanity between Christ and us—enables us to internalize the final exchange of death and its fears for life and its hopes. ("Metamorphosis" by The Journeys Project.)

Postscript: The Old Rugged Cross

There’s a reason why this country gospel standard is one of the best-loved hymns of all time. John Barry sings “The Old Rugged Cross.”

THE OLD RUGGED CROSS

On a hill far away stood an old rugged cross

The emblem of suffering and shame

How I love that old cross where the Dearest and Best

For a world of lost sinners was slain

So I'll cherish the old rugged cross

'Til my trophies at last I lay down

I will cling to the old rugged cross

And exchange it some day for a crown

Oh that old rugged cross so despised by the world

Has a wondrous attraction for me

For the dear Lamb of God left His glory above

To bear it to dark Calvary

So I'll cherish the old rugged cross...

Then He'll call me some day to my home far away

Where His glory forever I'll share

So I'll cherish the old rugged cross...

One of "Them"--Reflecting on Archbishop Romero

Then one of the elders asked me, “These in white robes—who are they, and where did they come from?” I answered, “Sir, you know.” And he said, “These are they who have come out of great tribulation; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.” (Revelation 7.13-14)

A Lenten Life

As barbarically wrong as it was, where and when it happened seemed ineffably right. Thirty years ago today, Archbishop Óscar Romero of San Salvador celebrated Mass before a meager congregation shoehorned into a tiny hospital chapel. The hospital’s name was La Divina Providencia—“Divine Providence.” At the conclusion of the Eucharist, Father Romero lifted the chalice—with its wine now mystically transubstantiated into Christ’s blood, according to Roman Catholic theology—offering the doxology commonly known as “The Great Amen.” In that moment, an assassin fired his M-16 assault rifle. Father Romero dropped the chalice as his blood spilled on the altar. The Faithful who’d gathered to worship with this great champion of the poor, sick, and alone had been anticipating this grim tragedy for quite a while. So had millions of the Archbishop’s supporters in Latin America and around the world. He expected it and, as was his way, did all he could to prepare his people for the inevitable. But is anyone ever prepared for a thing like this, this savage desecration of two lives—Christ’s and His servant’s?

Archbishop Romero led what can only be described “a Lenten life.” As a young priest of 26, he noted in his diary, “In recent days the Lord has inspired in me a great desire for holiness… I have been thinking of how far a soul can ascend if it lets itself be possessed entirely by God.” His first steps toward this goal drew him into a wilderness of profound contemplation and self-denial. He never left it. More of what pleased him fell away to accommodate more of what pleased God until he identified wholly “with the church incarnated in this people which stands in need of liberation.” “This people” referred to the Salvadorans. For decades, they battled demoralizing poverty and violence perpetuated by corrupt regimes. After a Jesuit colleague was killed in 1977 for teaching self-reliance to the indigent, the Archbishop concluded, “If they have killed him for what he did, then I too have to walk the same path.” Two years later, the Revolutionary Government Junta, an uneasy, leftist military-civilian alliance, seized power and El Salvador erupted into full-blown civil war. Human rights abuses reached unprecedented levels. On March 23, Archbishop Romero preached a sermon insisting it was each Salvadoran soldier’s Christian duty to defy orders to carry out acts of repression and abuse. The next day, he was gone.

Flashpoint

The killing of Archbishop Romero became a flashpoint for Christians worldwide—a chastening of Divine Providence that reignited passions for mercy and justice in many who’d grown content with going through the motions. His death amplified his own realization: “If they killed him for what he did, then I too have to walk the same path.” This superseded soft-edged willingness to die for Christ and His message. The Archbishop was ready to die. Sacrificing personal comfort to emulate the poor amounted to a whisper in a cataclysm. He committed himself to being—and being seen—where he was needed, as well as speaking truth to power wherever he was heard. And in the process, he re-taught us one of Christ’s core lessons.

The holier we try to live, the filthier we get, because a life of holiness gravitates toward unwholesome, unsanitary people and places. It doesn’t breeze by dens of degradation to offer a hand out or a boost up. It foregoes reputation and regard to get down in the depths with the needy and oppressed. And it identifies with them so completely, it’s ready to accept a fate as brutal and harrowing as any visited on others who live there. In Matthew 9, Jesus attends a dinner hosted by Matthew, a tax collector and thus, a man roundly despised as a traitor who colludes with Rome. Since Matthew’s unwelcome to join the “right crowd,” he runs with the wrong one, many of whom join him and Christ for dinner. It appalls the righteous set to see Jesus fraternize with such lowlifes. But Jesus silences their gasps with this: “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. But go and learn what this means: ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’ For I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners.” (Matthew 9.12-13) Archbishop Romero, like Jesus and many other exemplars of true holiness, demonstrated the ascent to “be entirely possessed by God” requires a descent that identifies with every level of humanity, good and evil, poor and rich, female and male, gay and straight, and so on. Once we learn to discount appearances and conditions, we’ll discover people standing “in need of liberation” at each step.

Washed

Avoiding hurt and hungry people so we can maintain a pristine façade is foolish. Our resolve should be fixed on standing clean and righteous before God. And if we’re courageous enough to weather grime we obtain by offering our lives to the unsightly and unhealthy, we’ll meet our Maker in flawless condition. In The Revelation, John of Patmos is swept into Heaven, where he sees “a great multitude that no one count.” (Revelation 7.9) They sing anthems of praise to God and Christ. An “elder” asks John, “Who are these people in white robes—where did they come from?” When John can’t answer, the elder tells him, “These are they who have come out of the great tribulation; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.” (v14) In other words, they arrived in wretched conditions, soiled and stained by their labors and trials. But they’ve washed their robes in Christ’s blood; they’ve made them white.

The elder continues: “Never again will they hunger; never again will they thirst. The sun will not beat upon them, nor any scorching heat. For the Lamb at the center of throne will be their shepherd; he will lead them to springs of living water. And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.” (v16-17) Archbishop Romero is one of “them.” Today, we lift this promise in his honor as a doxology—a Great Amen. And we defy his death by cherishing the Christ he exemplified as the Christ we will follow.

The chapel of La Divina Providencia moments after Archbishop Óscar Romero died at the foot of the cross.

Postscript: I Know That My Redeemer Liveth

Sarah Brightman performs Handel’s magnificent aria. “And though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God.”

Coming Soon

You must also be ready, because the Son of Man will come at an hour when you do not expect him. (Luke 12.40)

A Touchy Subject with Urgency
The Second Coming is a touchy subject, a doctrine strongly influenced by personal factors like upbringing, life philosophy, and chosen faith community. That Jesus may come any moment is extremely vivid for many. They live in a state of heightened alert constantly reinforced by churches they attend, books they read, music they listen to, and believers they fellowship with. Others view the Second Coming as a prophetic eventuality unlikely to occur before they die, a common view in their circles. And some regard it as a quasi-metaphor—less an actuality than a message to inspire vigilance. If you’re among Christians holding widely divergent opinions about this, take note. Simply broaching the topic may topple the apple cart quicker than you imagine, as the Second Coming gets wound up in profoundly individual implications. For instance, are we following Jesus out of expedience—what’s happening—or expectancy—what may happen? Does belief in a literal rapture versus a looser interpretation reveal respective weaknesses in either? And on it goes.

For unity’s sake, let’s agree to disagree about the whens and hows in hopes of reaching consensus about the Second Coming’s whys. Jesus obviously has major reasons for promising to return, and the Apostles’ insistence He will figures prominently in Early Church culture. Since the doctrine threads through the New Testament, from Matthew to Revelation, we can’t minimize it as we do specific religious, social, and sexual mores mentioned here and there. Faith in Christ’s return is a universal mandate. However we choose to interpret its mechanics, we must infuse its essence with urgency. The Second Coming matters. A lot.

Keep Busy
Varying views on the subject don’t really affect our grasp of why it matters and why it’s urgent. While introducing the concept with three parables in Luke 12, Jesus clearly addresses our fondness of haphazard procrastination and frivolous pleasure. In a sense, the sophomoric “Jesus is coming—look busy” almost gets it right. The real message isn’t look busy, though; it’s keep busy. Relaxed attitudes, reckless behavior, and delays in rectifying them will not stand. Jesus’s stories convey the urgency of doing our best with an ominous moral: taking it easy inevitably leads to being taken by surprise.

In the first parable, the master of a house goes to a party and stays out later than usual. Jesus says he will reward servants who stay awake and occupied until he returns—“even if he comes in the second or third watch of the night” (roughly from 10 PM to dawn; v38)—by serving them. The second story concerns a homeowner who’s unaware a thief is casing his house, leaves it unlocked, and comes back to find it ransacked. “Had he known when the thief would strike,” Jesus says, “he’d have taken proper precautions.” (v39) In the third story, a master leaves one servant to manage the others in his absence. If he takes the job seriously, Jesus says the master will make him manager when he returns. But if suspicions his master is delayed cause him to abuse his authority and indulge in excessive pleasure, the master will catch him off-guard and destroy him. (v46) Jesus applies these tales to His Second Coming in verse 40: “You also must be ready, because the Son of Man will come at an hour when you do not expect him.”

No Time Left to Lose
Our conflicts about the Second Coming arise from a common—and convenient—misreading of its purpose. We presume it’s meant to ensure we behave without supervision. If we respond to this kind of discipline, we avidly embrace the Second Coming’s “Gotcha!” aspect. It works exactly as we think it should by using fear and uncertainty to create faith and hope. But if we resist (or resent) negative intimidation to achieve positive ends, we find it out of character with everything we know and love about Christ. So the same faulty understanding ends up justifying everyone’s perceptions, which makes all of us right and none of us wrong—or, more accurately, none of us right and all of us wrong.

The reason why Christ will return, as well as why it’s urgent to believe He will, becomes apparent in how it alters our sense of time. When Jesus establishes this doctrine, He effectively cancels tomorrow. We no longer can excuse what we do and need to do now on the premise we can compensate for it later. When we glance at a clock or calendar, all we see are the present hour and date. There’s no time left to lose. Because our Master hasn’t returned, we keep busy and stay awake. Because we don’t know when He’ll walk through the door, we take care that everything we’ve been given remains protected. Because we suspect His coming is delayed, we maximize the added time to nurture those around us and clean up our act. Jesus doesn’t say, “Get ready.” He says, “Be ready.” The Second Coming was never intended to focus our attention on an undefined future moment. It’s about remaining steadfast and responsible in the very real and present now. Jesus is coming soon—maybe not as soon as some think. But when He does, whether it’s today or a million years from now, no doubt it will be sooner than expected. Be ready.

Almost right. Instead of looking busy, though, Jesus teaches us to keep busy. Instead of getting ready, He tells us to be ready. The Second Coming is about the very real and present now.

(Next: Stick with Your Competencies)

Rising Hope

If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are to pitied more than all men… For as in Adam all die, so in Christ all will be made alive.

                        1 Corinthians 15.19, 23

Too True to Be Incredible

Before the Church left its cradle, a Greek schism fell back into pagan disbelief in resurrection. For this group, Christ’s resurrection posed no problem; He was divine. But mortals? That every Christian will be raised from the dead was too incredible to be true. It appears this resurrection debunking caught on, because in 1 Corinthians Paul exerts great effort to debunk the debunkers, unequivocally defending resurrection as the linchpin of Christianity. He builds his case carefully, first citing 500 eyewitnesses who saw the resurrected Christ. No one doubts that. Next, with dazzling agility, he flips his argument. “If it is preached that Christ has been raised from the dead, how can some of you say there is no resurrection of the dead?” he asks in 1 Corinthians 19.12. Then he flips it again in verse 13. “If there’s no resurrection of the dead, not even Christ has been raised.” Finally, he nails the crux of the matter in 14: “If Christ has not been raised, our preaching is useless and so is your faith.”

Questioning resurrection questions other essentials. For example, in John 3.16 Jesus says He came to ensure “whoever believes in him will not perish but have eternal life.” (John 3.16) In verse 20 of his treatise, Paul confirms Christ arose as “the firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep”—His victory over death secures our immortality. And what are we to do with Jesus’s own statements? In Luke 14.14, He advises His host to welcome the poor and disabled to his table, saying, “Although they cannot repay you, you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous.” Why would He say such a thing? Thus, Paul’s logic: without trusting what Christ taught, what good is faith? If Jesus says the dead will be raised, resurrection is too true to be incredible. Knowing his opponents might dismiss this as sophistry, Paul serves up an airtight theological defense of resurrection.

Undoing Adam’s Deadly Deed

“You gotta give ‘em hope,” Harvey Milk famously said, and that’s the basis of Paul’s defense—hope. “If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are to be pitied more than all men.” (v19) It’s a given Jesus has no rivals among philosophers. His purity of wisdom and thought clarified the most opaque, unwieldy concepts into transparent truth. Yet Jesus was not a moralist or sage. His mission superseded dispensing tips for better living. Everything He did and every word He said flowed with eternal value. Paul says all that Jesus did centered on undoing Adam’s deadly deed. We were not created to die; Adam’s disobedience introduced death to our species. Jesus expressly came to correct that and return us to eternal life with God. “For as in Adam all die, so in Christ all will be made alive,” verse 22 says. Before Christ, there was no point in believing in resurrection—and, indeed, many Jewish sects (e.g., the Sadducees) rejected the notion outright. Basically, existence came down to hanging around as long as possible. When the curtain fell, the show was over, a gloomy outlook on life. Christ’s proof of resurrection’s reality changed that. He gave us hope.

A New Elephant

Modern science and logic bring a new elephant to this discussion. Many Christians striving to balance natural facts with unnatural faith actually fall behind ancient resurrection debunkers. Before considering resurrection for all believers, they have to squeeze past elephantine doubts that Jesus actually arose from the dead. There are any number of rational reasons why resurrection of a corpse three-days dead is medically impossible—i.e., too incredible to be true. Yet these arguments strike me as moot, based on one basic, theological understanding. The body taken off the cross on Friday and the one that leaves the tomb on Sunday are radically different. Resurrection involves more than returning to physical life; it's transformation into a new life form. In John 20.17, when Mary Magdalene mistakes the risen Christ for a gardener, she touches Him, to which He says, “Do not hold on to me, for I have not yet returned to the Father.” This implies He’s protecting His resurrected body from physical corruption. Paul’s explanation of resurrection in 1 Corinthians 15.52-53 supports this: “We shall be changed. For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality.” (KJV)

Just as belief in spiritual transformation defies natural logic, hope in physical transformation balks at natural science. We shoo the fact-fed elephant out of the room. Faith in redemption and resurrection are all of a piece, a spiritually progressive process that starts in our beings and eventually overtakes our bodies. Resurrection is the final step. In verse 54 Paul teaches this ultimate transformation occurs so the prophecy of Isaiah 25.8 “will come true: ‘Death has been swallowed up in victory.’” Believing in this eventuality gives rise to hope for every day we live. Mortality—the only inevitability none of us can escape—will be defeated. By comparison, daily challenges we face look like small potatoes. Knowing our last and toughest battle with flesh ends in victory transforms how we see ongoing struggles with mortal weaknesses and desires. They also will be swallowed up in victory. That’s the real purpose and strength of resurrection. Hope we will live gives us hope to live.

Resurrection is a matter of faith, not science—transformation to new life, not return to life. To gain the hope it brings, we shoo the fact-fed elephant out of the room.

Postscript: Hi-Ho, Hi-Ho, Off to Work I Go

Alas, professional commitments take me away for the next few days. As I’ve done in previous absences, I’ve combed through previous posts and selected a few to revisit while I’m gone. In the past few weeks, Straight-Friendly has gained quite a few new readers, encouraging me to think the reposts will likely be new to them. And for the veterans, I pray the reposts will also prove worth a second look. While I’m away, I’ll continue to stay in touch via email, comments, and Facebook. Until I return, I hope you’ll continue to come by, share your thoughts, and pray for me as I travel.

Broken

When he had given thanks, he broke it and said, “This is my body, which is for you; do this in remembrance of me.”

                        1 Corinthians 11.24

Born to Break

The King James Version of 1 Corinthians 11.24 slightly alters Christ’s statement. But it’s a rich enhancement. There, He says, “This is my body, which is broken for you,” stressing a one-to-one correlation: as bread is broken, so the body of Christ is broken. The double emphasis adds profound nuance to why God elected to dwell with us in flesh. Surely He had other means. He could have pronounced His New Order via a phenomenon like the burning bush. He could have revealed it by prophetic edict. Using the physical body as His redemptive medium suggests He intended to be broken—the Christ Child was born to break. Of course, we say; He laid on the cross’s altar as the final sacrifice for sin. But equating sacrifice with breaking mixes metaphors and misses the beauty of the bread. If Jesus were speaking of sacrifice, wouldn’t He have cited the Paschal lamb, the Passover meat offering? He’s specifically talking about His body as bread. The reference is more than a precursor to His death. It points to our life. “This is my body, which is for you,” He says.

Hungry No More

In John 6.35, Jesus declares, “I am the bread of life. He who comes to me will never go hungry.” Unbroken bread appeals to our senses. It looks and smells lovely and feels warm and substantial in our hands. But without breaking, bread’s value is fleeting. It must be ruined—torn open, pulled to pieces, and consumed—to experience its true benefits. The broken body of Christ is no different. It enables us to enjoy and experience the life He gives. His blood brings our atonement. This is why Jesus tells the disciples, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood, which is poured out for you.” (Luke 22.20) Hebrews 9.22 confirms this: “Without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness.” The new promise of God’s mercy is in Christ’s blood. But His body is broken to grant us life.

“If you come to me,” Jesus says, “you’ll be hungry no more.”  The breaking of the Bread of Life nourishes us twice—in this existence and the next. In John 10.10, Jesus defines His mission very succinctly, saying, “I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.” And every Sunday school student can quote His definition of God’s plan: “For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.” (John 3.16) The sacramental bread we eat—the broken body of Christ—endows us to live fully now and assures us we’ll live again. We take the bread in remembrance of Jesus’s willingness to be broken. Yet we also cherish its reminder that Christ’s breaking fully ourhunger for life, now and forever.

In the Body

Paul writes in Galatians 2.20: “I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.” Being crucified with Christ means being broken with Him. We set aside concerns about appearances and appeal to give Him free access to our minds, hearts, and spirits. We allow ourselves to be ruined—torn open, pulled to pieces, and consumed—by His Spirit. The life we live, we live by faith. We look beyond what we see. We believe what we can’t prove. While unbroken minds crave definitive knowledge and evidence, we trust in Christ, who loved us and gave Himself to be broken for us. While they wrestle with “the meaning of life,” we live. We live confidently now because we have absolute confidence Jesus suffered and died so we can live forever.

On this Maundy Thursday, Christians everywhere will commemorate the Lord’s Supper in services expressly focused on the sacramental elements. Sadly, the vast majority will gloss over the nuances differentiating the bread from the wine, reducing them to: bread = body; wine = blood. They’ll quickly combine them to equal sacrifice. And, basically, they’re correct. The breaking of His body and shedding of His blood both contributed to His death. Yet each element also carries unique meaning we shouldn’t overlook. His shed blood brings our full, eternal forgiveness of sin. His broken body provides our full, eternal life. “This cup is for you. This bread is for you,” He says. We are forgiven. We have life.

Only after bread is broken can we experience its benefits.

(Tomorrow: At Just the Right Time)

Coming and Going

A time to be born and a time to die…

                        Ecclesiastes 3.2

For Our Time

The Bible repeatedly fills its pages with detailed pre-natal prophecies that include who the child will be, his name, his personal attributes, and how God intends to use him. Solomon, the Ecclesiastes writer, is a perfect instance of this. Before his conception, God spoke to David: “You will have a son who will be a man of peace and rest… His name will be Solomon, and I will grant Israel peace and quiet during his reign.” (1 Chronicles 22.9) When He said this, Israel had endured years of relentless enemy attacks. “I plan to restore the nation’s tranquility,” God said, “and I’m sending Solomon to make it happen. I’ll place traits in him that will inspire him to accomplish what I want to do.”

It’s tempting to think of Solomon, Isaac, Jesus, and other predicted Bible babies as special cases. This offsets our modest ambitions with a notion they were born for greater responsibilities and higher purposes. Yet could it be that Scripture singles them out as examples, not exceptions? Could their stories start before birth to explain we all enter the world for a specific time and purpose? There’s a time to be born, Solomon said. Our birthdays gain significance when we believe they’re exquisitely timed to God’s plan. Nothing about us is coincidental—when we arrived, where we were placed, the gender, ethnicity, orientation, and disposition we brought into the world—nothing. God starts something the moment we’re born. He equips us, and only us, to complete what He starts. There can be little doubt we are born for our time.

The Big Appointment

Drifting off to sleep a few years ago, I was hit with the realization I will die. Obviously, I knew it all ends eventually. This went deeper than knowledge, though. It was closer to a dormant instinct that awoke for no other reason than it was time I realized death was coming—or I was headed toward it. It’s hard to describe the odd sensation of mortality unexpectedly overtaking you. It didn’t frighten me. Like all believers, I echo Paul’s sentiment that he “would prefer to be away from the body and at home with the Lord.” (2 Corinthians 5.8) But sudden awareness that my days are numbered made me, well, uneasy. Before pulling back the covers, I had all the time in the world. Moments later, I knew differently.

“Is there not an appointed time to man upon earth? Are not his days also like the days of an hireling?” asks Job 7.1 (KJV). It may not make us happy, but it’s good to remember our lives carry an expiration date. Before we sink into depression because our days our limited, however, we should also remember our potential is not. Jesus said, “I chose you and appointed you to go and bear fruit—fruit that will last.” (John 15.16) Instead of dreading death as an unavoidable appointment, we devote our time and energy to living productively. We bear fruit that lasts long after we leave the scene. That’s the calling we were born to answer, the work we were sent to do. “I chose you. I appointed you.” That’s the Big Appointment we want to keep.

Moses prayed, “Teach us to number our days… establish the work of our hands.” (Psalm 90.12, 17) God ordains the time of birth and death for every person He creates. Knowing this compels us to make the most of every numbered day. We do the work. He establishes it.

  

God ordains when we're born and when we die according to His plan. We're called and appointed to create fruitful, enduring lives with the time He's given us.

(Tomorrow: Planting and Plucking)