Hill People

A city on a hill cannot be hidden. (Matthew 5.14)

Asking to Understand

My family’s roots dig deep into the red clay of northern Alabama, where the Appalachian Mountains ease into pine-covered slopes and low-slung river valleys. Though I’ve heard people from the region referred to as “Appalachians,” we didn’t perceive ourselves as such. When my folks relocated to Chicago, as big-city immigrants often do, they first settled in a neighborhood of people with strong “ethnic” ties—in our case, Southern families. To a lot of Chicagoans, however, we were all hillbillies. As they say, we didn’t take kindly to it. In retrospect, we weren’t ashamed to be identified with “hill people” of Appalachian heritage or the implications that went with it. We just weren’t happy about being stereotyped. We got our first taste of prejudice. And we quickly learned carving through its walls is hard and tedious work—chipping away at the stereotype while hanging on to the truth about ourselves. Mom, in particular, was tireless about this, and she ingeniously taught us both sides of the story by reaching out to Chicagoans of every kind. Our kitchen table became a sociology lab where all sorts of people collected. There I discovered the surest way to break through stereotypes was asking to understand instead of asking to be understood.

Through the years, I’ve brushed against other types of prejudice. Much was gay-related, of course—mostly from strangers or slight acquaintances that mistook my being out and confident as their opening to “kid.” (God has been gracious; if anyone ever hated me for my making, He spared my knowing it.) What continually surprises me, however, is bumping into people with fixed notions about Christians. Some of their ideas derive from the media’s obsession with charlatans, grifters, Hell-raisers, apostates, et al. But I’ve found the bulk of negative Christian stereotypes are wrought from personal encounters with errant believers like those Paul mentions in 2 Timothy 3. We can list them in four columns: egocentric, abusive, deceitful, and self-indulgent. He describes these groups as, “having a form of godliness but denying its power,” telling Timothy, “Have nothing to do with them.” (2 Timothy 3.5) When our paths cross with insincere, nominal Christians, we soon learn neither of us has anything the other wants. We part ways. The challenge comes by realizing how hard it is to shake off stereotypes they inspire. Our attention turns to those who embrace these images, because their prejudices are more damaging to them than us. That’s where understanding them rather than being understood comes in.

A City on a Hill

In many ways, the Sermon on the Mount functions as Jesus’s inaugural address. His recent baptism caps with divine declaration He is the Christ. His interim period in the desert confirms His strength of character and commitment. He exits the wilderness to find a throng of eager supporters. Matthew 5.1-2 introduces the Sermon, noting, “Now when he saw the crowds, he went up on a mountainside and sat down. His disciples came to him, and he began to teach them.” The speech calls for sweeping change on a scale no one before or since has advocated. Jesus lays out a grass-roots strategy for completely overthrowing cultural, political, and religious norms by inverting personal values. The least become the greatest, the poorest the richest, the saddest the happiest, etc. This message bathes His followers with conviction that they are avatars of change—role models and key influencers and protectors of Christ’s principles. “You’re the salt of the earth,” He says, “the light of the world.” He climaxes this portion of the Sermon with “A city on a hill cannot be hidden.” (v14)

The statement's idealism sets our hearts racing. In reality, though, Jesus turns the phrase to let some air out of His rhetoric. When His listeners hear it, they most likely respond with a collective “Huh?” because it implicitly suggests they’ll be stereotyped as hill people, and knowing who the real hill people are explains why they're perplexed. In 1 Kings 16, we read of several Israeli monarchs, including King Omri, whose reign, like so many, slides into corruption. His only notable deed: “He bought the hill of Samaria… and built a city on the hill, calling it Samaria.” (v24)

The Jews regard no one with more disdain than Samaritans. Everything about them is sub-par. Though they claim a common heritage with the Jews—calling themselves “the lost tribe”—they honor few of Israel’s traditions. They claim to worship Israel’s God. Yet roughly two centuries before Christ, they buckle to political pressures and rechristen their temple in the name of Zeus, merging Judaic and Greek rites into a hybrid faith. Because of this, Samaritans are worse than outcasts. They’re impostors. When they travel among the Jews, they call attention to themselves. There's nowhere to hide. Jesus’s followers hear “a city on a hill” and think “Samaria,” not some Utopia. Jesus tells them they’ll be highly visible targets of prejudice lumped together with people profaned for hypocrisy and weakness.

Own the Label

The Samaritan label has stuck to this day. Like it or not, much of the world sees us as hill people. It seems we have two options. We can mimic ancient Jewish society by reviling hypocritical and weak-minded people who claim a common faith heritage with us. But all this does is create tension and legitimize negative Christian stereotypes. Or we can own the label and prejudice that comes with it by being a city on a hill in the idealistic sense. The Gospels give us two superb examples of how we do it, both of which display the art of setting aside our need to be understood in deference to understanding the needs of others.

In the first, a Samaritan woman meets Jesus at a well. He asks to share some of her water. Aware of how Jews feel about Samaritans, she’s confused. “Sir, I’m a hill person. Why would You want to drink with me?” she asks. Jesus replies He can give her living water that will sate her thirst forever. She wants to understand this and her honesty results in a life-changing experience. The second instance comes in Christ’s parable of a Samaritan who ignores common prejudice to care for a badly injured Jew. While none of the victim’s compatriots risk the time, money, and reputation it would cost to help him, the Samaritan defies stereotype by fulfilling the law to love one’s neighbor. Jesus tells this story to a lawyer, asking him who is the story’s hero. The lawyer says, “The Samaritan—the hill person.” Jesus replies, “Go and do likewise.” (Luke 10.37) Yes, being labeled as hill people creates problems. No, it’s not pleasant to deal with. But only by owning the label can we overcome the prejudice affixed to it. Only by using its disadvantages to understand and care for those who misjudge us can we debunk the “hill people” stereotype and free them—and us—from its damaging effects.

Samaria—home of ancient Palestine’s “hill people.”

Pneumos

He has made us competent as ministers of a new covenant—not of the letter but of the Spirit; for the letter kills, but the Spirit gives life. (2 Corinthians 3.6)

Conflicting Accounts

Coming off Easter always finds me feeling uneasy about the disharmony of the Gospels. While they tell the same story, their facts don’t match up. Women who accompany Mary Magdalene to the tomb in one version are replaced by others in another and completely missing in another. Matthew and Mark report one angel greets Mary; Luke and John give us two. And so on. One suspects the event’s magnitude would demand uniform telling, simply for credibility’s sake. Yet we end up with four conflicting accounts of Christianity’s defining moment, which means some of what we read is wrong—inaccurate at the very least, but also possibly exaggerated, even fabricated out of whole cloth.

If the “Easter variations” were the sole example of biblical incongruence, we might dismiss them as four writers adapting the narrative for specific purposes, as is the case. But glaring contradictions and inaccuracies abound in Scripture, starting with Genesis, which doesn’t even complete its first Creation account before launching a rewrite. Then there’s the issue of authorship and revisions. Roughly half of Paul’s epistles are penned by surviving followers, some of whom make no effort to conceal references to developments that occurred after his execution. The Books of Moses, the first five Old Testament volumes, are subjected to numerous revisions that filter the original content (recorded pseudonymously after Moses’s death) through the knowledge and needs of each new editor. None of this would be unsettling but for this: The Bible is God’s Word. And how we account for its anomalies indubitably affects its vitality and relevance in our lives.

Take It or Leave It

Oddly enough, textual lapses posed no problem for ancient readers. Manual transcription of the written word inherently allowed for inaccuracies and editorial interference. Not until mechanical print made exact replication possible was the premise of Biblical infallibility remotely possible. Even then, translating original texts presumed a margin of error due to linguistic gaps, poor penmanship, and common misspellings. The push to view the Bible as “the infallible Word of God” is surprisingly recent, launched in the mid-1970’s by a cluster of influential evangelicals. The notion took hold in conservative circles, which embraced the entire Bible, word for word, as their bedrock of belief. Yet doing so created a huge contradiction infallibility's proponents have yet to resolve. If every word in the Bible is factually indisputable, why is faith necessary?

Taking Scripture at face value eliminates doubts that spring from its inaccuracies and contradictions, which ends up less ideal than it sounds. Infallibility's “take it or leave it” proposition shuts down the conversation before it begins. But the Bible is God’s prime communication channel to humankind. It’s given to open discourse between us, to draw us into dialogue with Him, and to prompt leaps of faith in spite of its logical challenges. It’s meant to fly in the face of empirically proven facts and human understanding. Accepting what we read without question is not the same as believing what God says. Indeed, they’re exact opposites. The former relies entirely on what we see, while the latter relies exclusively on faith in what we’re told. In 2 Corinthians 5.7, Paul says, “We live by faith, not by sight.” And in Romans 10.17, he succinctly describes the Word’s function in faith formation: “Faith comes by hearing the message, and the message is heard through the word of Christ.” The Bible is given to engender faith, not to validate it. If we think it proves anything, we miss everything it’s supposed to do, namely to teach us how to live without proof.

Breath

One can only imagine Paul’s reaction to this fledgling doctrine of infallibility, but his admonitions about Scripture firmly indicate it would fall between dismay and horror. Aside from his prevailing message of God’s unequivocal grace through faith in Christ, his recurrent theme is freedom from textual servitude. As we’ve already seen, however, his vehemence against enslavement to the Law doesn’t discount the value of Scripture. Indeed, he insists it’s a vital component in helping every believer achieve maturity. He counsels in 2 Timothy 2.15: “Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved, a workman who does not need to be ashamed and who correctly handles the word of truth.” “Correct handling” in Paul’s view entails abandoning literal interpretation of Scripture so it can speak directly to our hearts and spirits. Literalism spawns legalism, the thing Paul abhors most of all because it enforces rather than inspires. It puts us back where we were before Christ’s sacrifice and resurrection—playing by the rules instead of living by faith. In short, literalism (and its nasty cousin, legalism) negates the cross.

“He has made us competent as ministers of a new covenant—not of the letter but of the Spirit; for the letter kills, but the Spirit gives life,” Paul says in 2 Corinthians 3.6. His word for “Spirit” is pneumos. Breath. It’s the same word John uses when the Risen Christ first appears to the disciples: “He breathed on them and said, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit.’” (John 20.22) Both of these images overtly echo Genesis 2.7: “The LORD God formed the man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being.” Paul tells us Christ’s sacrifice forever freed God’s Word from the page, replacing “the letter” (grammatos, literal text that can be broken down into prescribed meaning and usage) with pneumos, the breath of life. Our competence as ministers of God’s boundless grace and acceptance depends on faith to believe this.

When we open the Bible, we look through its contradictions (versus around them) to see God’s Spirit in every word, between every line. Facts take a back seat to faith. The Spirit Jesus breathes into us and the one Paul finds in the Word are one and the same. It mysteriously brings the reality of God’s truth to life, on the page and in us. It inspires us to take leaps of faith despite all doubt and contrary evidence. The “infallible Word”—grammatos—can’t accomplish this. It’s permanently set, inert and unresponsive to changing times and needs. In contrast, the inspired Word—pneumos—is eternally relevant and vital. It breathes. The letter kills, but the Spirit gives life.

(Inspired by a comment posted by Jeff on the Straight-Friendly Facebook page.)

The Bible’s truth and relevance aren't visible on the printed page. They breathe through the words and between the lines, brought to life by the Spirit.

When Shepherds Stray

Samuel said, “Although you were once small in your own eyes, did you not become the head of the tribes of Israel? … Why did you not obey the LORD?” (1 Samuel 15.17-19)

NOTE: We typically distance our discussions here from current controversies. Today's post is an exception in an attempt to ground our thinking about the present crisis in Rome. It is longer than usual, yet woefully inadequate in many ways. I ask you read it prayerfully.

The Terrors of Trust

Trust is a powerful thing. Confidence in parents or leaders, pastors or supervisors makes all the difference in our lives; it’s the medium through which we learn and prosper. Only when we reach positions of leadership and respect do we discover the terrors of trust. They riddle us with dread of misguiding those who look to us. Opportunities for failure abound. So, while experience, expertise, and willingness earn trust, maintaining it hinges on our ability to put those who trust us first and our personal needs and longings last. This is a terrifying prospect, because it begs the question “Can I be trusted?” Furthermore, damage caused by broken trust is directly proportional to its perceived value. Some avocations—parenthood, life partnership, teaching, political office, faith formation, etc.—are deemed sacrosanct. We presume people in these positions will cherish our trust above their interests. Thankfully, the vast majority of them do, which is why honored trust isn’t as remarkable as broken trust, because what is “history” if not one continuous saga of abused power? What is “scandal” if not bad faith’s showcase? And, since we’ve learned nothing from the past, today’s news is overrun with people reputed to be trustworthy who prove they’re not. None of these is more troubling than the faith crisis confronting the Roman Catholic Church. It grieves all of us—Catholics and non-Catholics, believers and non-believers—in its galvanizing depiction of exalted leaders wedged between honoring trust and protecting interests. It’s an ancient drama, one we see play out in the life of Israel’s first king. A review of Saul’s story provides some valuable insights into what happens when shepherds stray.

The Evolution of Leadership

To reap the full benefit of Saul’s lesson, we must retrace the evolution of leadership in Israel. While God knows Israel will eventually ask for a king, this isn’t His intention. His plan calls for a tribal government guided by a chief prophet who voices God’s concerns and desires. Judges mediate local matters in accordance to divine law and military leaders serve on an ad hoc basis per the prophet’s orders. Israel’s neighbors are all absolute monarchies, whose successions are predominately determined by internal power struggles—a collection of nations ruled by warrior kings. Leadership by brute force and its corollary—divide and conquer—are anathema to God’s organic approach to nurture Israel as a people unto Himself. But Israel’s people become convinced they also need a king. This wounds Samuel, the most exemplary prophet the Old Testament offers. God consoles him, saying, “It is not you they have rejected, but they have rejected me as their king.” (1 Samuel 8.6) He sets down very specific duties and rights for the king, which Samuel publishes, along with this warning: “You will cry out for relief from the king you have chosen, and the LORD will not answer you in that day.” (v18) Nonetheless, Israel insists.

God vests the monarch with full administrative and judicial power over the realm, yet—unlike neighboring rulers—Israel’s king remains beholden to Him and His prophet. In this respect, the monarchy functions closer to a pastoral position than a seat of power. To underscore the king’s third rank, God selects a candidate, Saul, from the smallest tribe, Benjamin. This not only obviates any infighting and coalitions among the larger tribes, it signifies a certain disdain for the position in God’s sight. Saul, we’re told in 1 Samuel 9.2, is “an impressive young man without equal among the Israelites—a head taller than any of the others,” which makes him a big guy without big tribal backing. He’s perfect. To win the people’s trust, he’s endowed with prophetic gifts and leadership talent. The Israelites hail their new king with gusto. Then things start falling apart. Saul’s power and status overwhelm him. He stops listening to God’s direction and starts making decisions to protect his rule. When he forgets whence he came, he strays.

Things come to a head when Saul disobeys God’s order to rout Israel’s longtime foes, the Amalekites, down to the last beast. But he returns from battle with a herd of trophy cattle. Though he knows it’s wrong, he tries to spin his decision as obedient by sacrificing the livestock in worship. In return, God says, “I am grieved that I have made Saul king, because he has turned away from me and has not carried out my instructions.” (1 Samuel 15.10) Hoping his war spoils will ratify the nation’s trust in him, Saul loses faith with God. In 1 Samuel 16.14, we read one of Scripture’s most tragic verses: “Now the Spirit of the LORD had departed from Saul, and an evil spirit from the LORD tormented him.” The pastoral instincts are gone, replaced by a plague of ruinous doubts and jealousies. Saul eventually dies at his own hand. He’s succeeded by David, a shepherd so deeply flawed he has no choice but to trust God’s guidance and protection. And even though he also makes grievous mistakes, he remains honest before his Maker and God repays his humility by exalting him as the greatest leader in his nation’s history.

A Reckoning

The Vatican’s current crisis shakes us because it evidences broken pastoral trust on so many levels. Everywhere we look, we seem to find shepherds who’ve strayed. At the root of the problem are the reckless men who placed their personal desires above their priestly vows and their parishioners’ faith. We see people tormented by small beginnings taking advantage of their prominence. As we wrestle with our own feelings about them—and the issues multiplied from their misdeeds—it’s important to anchor our thoughts with a clear understanding of what their malfeasance represents. Sexual abuse of every kind is not about physical gratification; it’s a heinous leverage of power by individuals burdened by a sense of worthlessness. As such, the responsibility to end similar abuses—not only in the church, but also in the home, classroom, workplace, and elsewhere—falls to us. Belittling anyone is not acceptable. Beyond the effect it has on those we diminish and us, it spreads our evildoing to innocent lives.

Thus, while we watch in horror as pastors we trust fail to respond quickly, effectively, and unilaterally against this pervasive sin (which plagues all communions, not only the Roman Catholic one), we must realize this is a reckoning for the entire Body of Christ. We call for kings. We construct thrones. We cede power and trust. God’s plan for the Church is no different than His design for Israel. He grants our request for self-government, but reserves governance to Himself. Pastoral leadership, from the Pope down to the illiterate storefront preacher, is the Church’s underpinning, not its pinnacle. When Christ ordains Peter, He says, “On this rock I will build my church, and the gates of hell will not overcome it.” (Matthew 16.18) We see the pastoral imperative in action as Paul writes in Romans 1.11: “I long to see you so that I may impart to you some spiritual gift to make you strong.” We hear this note repeatedly in the epistles—making strong. The show of strength the Roman church presently seeks will only come when its leaders forsake their ambitions to honor their followers’ trust, when their sights return to the rock and their minds leave the clouds. Every pastor from every denomination must follow this prescription lest he/she stray. Every believer should do likewise.

The visibility of their errors doesn’t relieve our duty to listen to our true Shepherd. God is speaking to us. We are dealing with our misplaced trust in kings. We are reaping unjust and inadequate responses to problems we as a society created and then ignored. When shepherds stray, the sheep have two alternatives: bleat with alarm or repent themselves and return to the right way. In 2 Chronicles 7.14, God vows, “If my people, who are called my by name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then will I hear from heaven and forgive their sin and will heal their land.” (v14) The onus is on us. We can’t foresee whether or not the shepherds who’ve strayed will reawaken to their duties. They may go the way of Saul and destroy themselves. Right now, in the absence of shepherds, our prayers must attend to the flock. Our trust in God remains, and must always remain, sound.

When our shepherds stray, we are all called to a reckoning. We are all responsible for the losses and confusion that result in broken trust.

Touching

Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe.” Thomas said to him, “My Lord and my God!” (John 20.27-28)

The Twin

We know Thomas, the disciple, as “Doubting Thomas,” a moniker that has trailed him for centuries. We look down our noses at his “lack of faith” and think if we were in Thomas’s shoes and learned that Jesus was alive, we wouldn’t ask for actual proof. But all this shows is how poorly we understand Thomas—and how silly we are to form our view of him on popular assumption rather than scriptural information. Before shaking our heads, it’s best to revisit what we know about Thomas and the circumstances of the fateful incident that stains his reputation.

Other than listing him with the Twelve, Mark, Matthew, nor Luke makes mention of Thomas. All we learn comes from John, who includes him in three signal moments in Christ’s ministry: the raising of Lazarus, the Last Supper, and finally, the infamous post-resurrection encounter. Twice, John identifies him as “Thomas (called Didymus)”—or, “Thomas, a.k.a. 'Twin.'” While the others don’t report this, many Bible historians turn to them for clues as to whose “twin” Thomas is. Finding him consistently listed with Matthew, the tax collector, convinces many they’re twins, even though none of the writers—including “Matthew”—confirms it.

What we observe in John, however, suggests Thomas may not be a biological twin at all. “Didymus” may be no more than a fond nickname, because in each case John cites, we’re aware of Thomas’s intense bond with Christ. In John 11, after the disciples discourage Jesus from visiting Lazarus because hostile forces may stone Him, news of His friend’s death compels Jesus to go anyway. The other disciples still have reservations. Not Thomas. He says, “Let us also go, that we may die with him.” (John 11.16) If Jesus is going to die, Thomas is ready to die, too. Then, during their last meal together, when Jesus says He’s going away and they’ll follow Him later, Thomas voices His concern. “Lord,” he says, “we don’t know where you are going, so how can we know the way?” Jesus famously answers, “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” (14.5-6) In both instances, we discover a facet of separation anxiety. In the first, we sense Thomas’s fear that if Jesus visits Lazarus alone, He’ll die alone—and Thomas will live that always. In the second, we understand his fear of Jesus leaving him. Could it be that Thomas is Jesus’s figurative twin, that he’s called “Didymus” in reference to his “twinning” with Christ? It makes sense. And if it’s so, it shines an entirely different light on the third incident.

The Latecomer

Before reevaluating Thomas’s reaction to the Risen Christ, it’s important to establish a few details—and, perhaps, infuse the scene with a few inferences. As we know, Easter turns out being a very busy day. Indeed, so much happens so quickly the Gospel writers can’t quite get the facts straight, giving us four conflicting accounts. Without bogging down in precisely who’s where when, we can summarize the day with three occurrences. Even this startles us with contradictions. After Mary Magdalene and several women find the empty tomb, Jesus appears to her. She reaches for Him, calling Him “Teacher.” But Jesus says, “Do not hold on to me, for I have not yet returned to my Father.” (John 20.17) Instead, He tells her to inform the disciples He’s alive. They greet her news with speculation, go to the tomb, and finding His body gone, withhold judgment about His resurrection. Later, Jesus appears to two disciples traveling to Emmaus. He’s completely unrecognizable, i.e., He’s altered His likeness to conceal His wounds. While dining with them, He vanishes into thin air. They rush back to tell the others, who sit behind locked doors. Jesus inexplicably appears to them. This time, however, His wounds are visible and He asks the disciples to touch Him. “Look at my hands and feet,” He says. “Touch me and see; a ghost does not have flesh and bones, as you see I have.” (Luke 24.39)

While all this touching and not touching, appearing and vanishing transpires, two disciples are nowhere to be found—Judas and Thomas. We know Judas has since hanged himself. But where’s Thomas? Scripture doesn’t say. Having witnessed his bond with Jesus, though, it’s reasonable he pulls apart to mourn privately. He resurfaces to a lot of stories about the Risen Christ from people he’s seen make mistakes and assumptions many times before. He’s not convinced. “Unless I see the nail marks in his hands and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hands into his side, I will not believe it,” he says. (John 20.25) A week passes before Jesus reappears, again entering a locked room. The others are certain it’s He; they’ve already touched Him. But now watch very closely. Thomas never questions Jesus’s identity. Before he can, Jesus does for him what He did for the rest. “Put your finger here,” He instructs. “See my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe.” (v27) Once Thomas feels Jesus, he says, “My Lord and my God!” Is Thomas any different than the others? I don’t think so. Doubting Christ lives again is common to all—until they touch Him. Being the latecomer, not the skeptic, singles Thomas out.

Part of the Process

Eastertide finds all of us in no better shape than the disciples, each in our own way trying to process the reality of the Risen Christ. We make our annual pilgrimage to Calvary, the empty tomb, and finally, the disciples’ rooms because much that occurs in a year’s time resurrects doubts in ourselves, as well as our relationship with Christ. What we see in Thomas, then, we see in us. It isn’t literal-mindedness and weakness. If anything, it’s the result of our fervent bond with Jesus. Like the Twin, we strive to be like Christ in every way. When anything threatens to separate us from Him, anxiety spikes. And when we feel isolated from His presence, we may also isolate ourselves. Listening to others isn’t enough to convince us. Touching Jesus is what restores our trust and passion.

Instead of sneering at Thomas, we should admire him. His unabashed insistence reveals he realizes questions are part of the process. What’s more, his story proves Jesus understands this, too. As with Thomas, Christ offers to let us touch Him and then tells us, “Stop doubting and believe.” How easy it would be to base our belief solely on what we’re told. Yet how dangerous that would be. Those who tell us about Jesus are just as prone to mistakes and assumptions as we. How marvelous if we could be like Mary Magdalene and instinctively reach out to Jesus, our Teacher. Yet in these moments our faith is so strong it’s unnecessary to touch Him. Finally, how glorious to know when we’re honest about our doubts, Christ presents His open wounds to heal our shaken faith. The lost connection is restored. Our sorrow ends. Belief begins again.

Doubts are part of the process. Touching Jesus restores our connection to Him.

Complete the Task

I consider my life worth nothing to me, if only I may finish the race and complete the task the Lord Jesus has given me—the task of testifying to the gospel of God’s grace. (Acts 20.24)

Witnessing

Both Walt and I were reared in evangelically skewed traditions, his more so than mine. (Q: What sect gets the most grief from pundits and comedians for passing out literature door-to-door? A: The one he grew up in.) As kids, we were dragged out for regular “witnessing” excursions. Walt’s weekly forays happened on Saturday mornings, prime cartoon time for kids, explaining why our DVD collection is stocked to the gills with old “Flinstones” and “Jetsons” episodes. My church set aside one Saturday afternoon each month for similar activities. Being the pastor’s son made attendance compulsory, ruling out a lot of things I’d rather have done. Both of us resented being forced to “witness.” Now that we’re older, we laugh at the corkscrew logic in asking total strangers to stop what they’re doing so we could try to convert them. Witnessing in this paradigm disregarded others’ time and beliefs. On one hand, it didn’t reflect Christ’s gentle hospitality. On the other, impinging on people who believed in Jesus (just not “our way”) surely struck them as silly—selling ice to Eskimos, as they say.

There is no doubt we are called to witness. The Great Commission, Jesus’s final charge to His followers, comes down to “go and make disciples of all nations.” (Matthew 28.19) And in His salutary remarks before ascending into Heaven, He explicitly states the Holy Spirit enables our witness: “But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes on you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” (Acts 1.8) Yet neither of these statements—nor, for that matter, anything Jesus says about spreading the Gospel—implies witnessing should be reduced to one-on-one marketing campaigns or neighborhood canvasses. If only it were that easy, we’d gladly soak swollen knuckles after a hard day of door-knocking! There’s more to making disciples and being witnesses than pounding the pavement to distribute magazines or invite people to church. Witnessing is less about telling than showing. That re-centers our focus from what we say to who we are.

Unpredictable Circumstances

While anonymous evangelism sometimes proves successful, compared to exemplary witness, its effectiveness is markedly lower. Speaking as a stranger to strangers removes credibility from the equation. They don’t know if we live by our lines; we don’t know if what we say resonates. Thankfully, though, it’s also fairly harmless. At worst, it creates awkward situations. Witnessing by example, in contrast, often puts us in unpredictable circumstances—in places where actively portraying Christ’s principles subverts popular opinion, among people who read non-conformity as an overt threat. To obey Christ’s commission to enter and live in the world as His witnesses means we won’t avoid this. Nor should we try.

In Acts 20, we see Paul doing just as Jesus commanded: traveling far and wide, making disciples. Being a public figure whose reputation precedes him, he's well known by Christians, their antagonists, and many non-believers. The Apostle's itinerary is grueling. He darts about the Aegean by boat, docking in a new port nearly every day. He plans to travel inland to Ephesus, but it’s soon apparent he’s spread too thin. Hoping to return to Jerusalem for the Feast of Pentecost, he asks the Ephesians to meet him in Miletus, a coastal village. During his talk with them, Paul offers a most revealing comment about witnessing. He says he’s “compelled by the Spirit” (v22) to go to Jerusalem, uncertain what may happen there. All he knows is the Holy Spirit warns him he faces prison and hardships wherever he goes. This doesn’t deter him, though. His sole objective is to “finish the race and complete the task the Lord Jesus has given me—the task of testifying to the gospel of God’s grace.” (v24)

Lives We Lead

Paul’s ministry is extraordinary—unparalleled then and now. His task is not. It’s the same task Christ gives everyone who follows Him. He calls each of us to testify to the gospel of God’s grace. That’s how disciples make disciples. And our effectiveness rests completely how well we witness the miracle of grace in our own lives. In Paul’s case, the spark that sets his witness ablaze is his turnabout on the Damascus Road. His supernatural encounter with the Risen Christ irrevocably changes and redirects his life. Yet his testimony of the event meets with much skepticism, even causing some to question Paul’s apostolic bona fides. Intense awareness of God’s grace constantly fuels his witness. The flame never flickers. That establishes his credentials and accounts for his success. Paul cops to his weaknesses, admitting faults in almost every letter he writes. With outsized ego chief among them, it’s safely said his motives surpass polite self-deprecation. Paul can’t stop pointing out his shortcomings because He’s awestruck by grace.

Conversion experiences are important. But since they’re given to us specifically for us, it’s highly possible they’ll be viewed with reservation when we share them. Our word isn’t reliable. That’s why Jesus calls us to be His witnesses. We testify to His grace with open lives that passionately embrace God’s acceptance and mercy for everyone who believes. The Casting Crowns song posted here last Friday summarizes it beautifully: “It’s not because of who I am. It’s because of what You’ve done. It’s not because of what I’ve done. It’s because of Who You are.” Once that becomes the music of our souls, what it means will emerge in our attitudes and actions. Paul is right. Jerusalem is full of religious types to doubt our conversion. There will always be someone who challenges our faith. We can’t tell them any different, because we needn’t tell them anything. The gospel of grace isn’t imparted in what we say. It’s witnessed in lives we lead. The Lord Jesus entrusts each of us with this. We must complete the task.

Our witness isn’t in words; it’s in lives that reveal the grace God gives.

Stay

As they approached the village to which they were going, Jesus acted as if he were going farther. But they urged him strongly, “Stay with us, for it is nearly evening; the day is almost over.” So he went in to stay with them. (Luke 24.28-39)

The Whole Town’s Talking

Though hardly a sacrifice, idle chatter was one of my Lent restrictions. This made keeping up with current events difficult, as today’s news is buried in bias, assumption, and speculation. It also strained many personal conversations. I’m sure I unintentionally offended some people by encouraging my mind to stray toward more edifying thoughts when the talk veered toward frivolous complaints and gossip. (God bless Walt, my stream-of-consciousness maestro; this season's been especially tough on him.) All I did, really, was tighten my filter to minimize distractions—remaining in touch with important events while screening out the trivia. For instance, I’m delighted healthcare reform passed. But I have no idea how crazy things got to get there. I assume they did go berserk, since I kept shying away from conversations about it.

It’s a lame comparison, yet what I’m feeling—what many of us are feeling, I’m sure—in some ways approximates what Jesus must feel as He reenters the human realm. Hours after confirming He’s alive again to Mary Magdalene and she reports the news to the disciples, He encounters two of them walking to Emmaus, a hamlet seven miles north-northwest of Jerusalem. For all they know, He’s just another provincial on His way home from the big city. Luke 24.16 says, “They were kept from recognizing him.” How or why this is we’re not sure, but it makes sense, having seen celebrities alter their looks to mingle with us “regular people.” After Jesus catches up to them, He asks what they’re talking about. The men halt in their tracks. Some translations add they give Jesus a “sad” or “downcast” look, which in light of their response sounds a whole lot like condescension: “Are you only a visitor to Jerusalem and do not know the things that have happened there in these days?” (v18) In other words, “The whole town’s talking. You only could have missed this by not having many friends.” The accidental truth in their reaction may cause Jesus to smile inwardly. (I would.) In any case, He decides to ferret out what they think happened. “What things?” He asks. (v19)

Not What They Wanted

Jesus puts Himself in the peculiar spot of listening to others tell His story. The two disciples begin well (or so it seems) by reviewing the headlines. They inform Him they’re talking about Jesus of Nazareth. “He was a prophet, powerful in word and deed before God and all the people,” they say. “The chief priests and rulers handed him over to be sentenced to death, and they crucified him.” (v19-20) If Jesus were an ordinary man blessed with extraordinary gifts that catapulted Him into extraordinary circumstances, He might mistake their broad-brush summary for a quick build-up to the Big Story—the headline to top all headlines: JESUS IS ALIVE AGAIN! But since He knows where this is going, it’s conceivable He’s already peeved to hear them speak of Him in the past tense. He says nothing when they end the story with His death and segue into news analysis. In so many words, they confide their disappointment with Christ’s death as not what they wanted: “We had hoped that he was the one who was going to redeem Israel. And what is more, it is the third day since all this took place.” (v21)

One almost sees Jesus offer a nod ("OK, and...") to nudge them back to the facts, a sort of non-verbal cue for them to declare His resurrection. But they’re too literal-minded for any such possibility. The same logic-bound mentality that squelched their understanding of the cross trusses their faith in His resurrection. They spin it as a hysterical rumor—and by “hysterical,” I mean in its original misogynist sense. They tell Jesus, “Some of our women went to the tomb this morning, found Jesus’s body was missing, and rushed back with tales about angels saying He was alive. So a few of the guys went to have a look. The tomb was empty alright, but there was no sign of Jesus.” Their curt dismissal of the women’s report outrages Jesus. “How foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have spoken!” He scolds. “Did not the Christ have to suffer these things and then enter his glory?” (v25-30) He takes over, methodically going through Moses and the prophets to explain why His death isn’t a failure, why He is the Promised King, and why He’s alive again. Still unaware of Who He is, they marvel at how He opens their minds. When they get to their village and Jesus says He’s going on farther, they implore Him, “Stay with us!”

Eyes Wide Open

Most everyone’s favorite part comes next. Jesus replicates the Last Supper, giving thanks for the bread and breaking it. At last, they recognize Him and once they do, He disappears from sight. The two men are giddy with joy. “Were not our hearts burning within us while he talked with us on the road and opened the Scriptures to us?” they exclaim. (v32) They rush back to Jerusalem and vouch for the women’s witness. It’s a terrific way to button things up, but frankly I’m not impressed. Shouldn’t their faith have been so strong they were looking for the Risen Christ with eyes wide open when He joined them? Shouldn’t their journey to the cross have shaken scales of doubt and selfishness, politics and sexism from their eyes? Shouldn’t their hearts have burned in them the instant they heard of His resurrection? Shouldn’t they have begged Christ to stay with them because He was alive, not because they weren’t so sure of it?

Yesterday, Christians proclaimed, “Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again.” Unless said with conviction, though, it smacks of a yo-yo effect: up-down, up-down, now you see Him, now you don’t. This is not what He intended. Jesus defeated death so He could remain with us. His last words in Matthew 28.20 are, “Surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.” If we’ve listened and watched closely on the road to Calvary, we know He walks with us always, along every road we travel. We keep our eyes wide open to recognize Him, no matter what shape He takes. We invite Him to stay with us because He came to stay. This Easter miracle isn’t “breaking news” that stirs up commotion for a few days and fades into history. It’s the beginning of a story that’s far from over and we’re more than confident He’ll be here to the end.

Our journey to Calvary with Christ has opened our eyes to see Him walking with us always, whether on the Emmaus Road (above) or any other road we travel.

(NOTE: With Lent’s conclusion, Straight-Friendly will return to its previous three-per-week format. I hope you’ll continue to drop by frequently and contribute to our conversations here. God bless you—and have a terrific week.)

Postscript: Lenten "Sounds of the Season" Playlist

Several people have mentioned they were following the Lenten music videos and building iPod playlists of their favorites. For anyone interested in catching up, here's the entire list of featured songs. I've checked the iTunes store for their availability. Asterisks indicate the same song recorded by a different artist. Recordings not available through iTunes are also noted, although they may possibly be found elsewhere on the Web. My, but we went through a lot music!

Available to You, Rev. Milton Brunson and the Thompson Community Singers

I Surrender All, The Isaacs

Thief, Third Day

Shine, Collective Soul

You Are My Hope, Skillet

My Help (Cometh from the Lord), Ron Winans Family & Friends*

Refiner’s Fire, Brian Doerksen*

Everything We Need, Steve Bell and Fresh I.E.

You Are God Alone, Phillips, Craig, and Dean

You Can’t Hurry God, Dorothy Love Coates

He Is Exalted, Twila Paris

‘Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus, The Don Marsh Chorus and Orchestra*

Imagine Me, Kirk Franklin

All I Ever Have to Be, Amy Grant

Amazing Grace/My Chains Are Gone, Chris Tomlin

If I Can Help Somebody, Witney Phipps*

Heart of Worship, Matt Redman

I’m Forgiven, The Imperials*

Mercy on Those, Phoebe Snow

Alone in the Presence, CeCe Winans

Instrument of Peace, Frances Key/Cyrille Verdoux (N/A)

Praise the Lord, Russ Taff

His Strength is Perfect, Steven Curtis Chapman

Sabbath Song, Neville Peter (N/A)

O How He Loves You and Me, The Don Marsh Chorus and Orchestra

God’s Children, The Kinks

I Know That My Redeemer Liveth (Handel)

Whiter Than Snow, Joslin Grove Choral Society

Servant Song, David Haas*

Trust and Obey, Hillsong (N/A)

Hallelujah! (Handel)

I’m Trying to Be Like Jesus, One Clear Voice*

The Old Rugged Cross, John Berry

You Are the Living Word, Fred Hammond & Radical for Christ

Who Am I? Casting Crowns

Requiem in D Minor: Domine Jesu and Hostias (Mozart)

Church Medley (O Glory Hallelujah), The Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir

Somewhere Else

The men said to them, “Why do you look for the living among the dead?” (Luke 24.5-6)

Keeping Tabs

Amid their abject mourning for Jesus and sorting out what’s exactly happened over the last 72 hours, Christ’s followers also deal with numerous anxieties of a critically urgent nature. They are far from home, trapped in a city that violently turned on their Rabbi at the instigation of authorities who conspired to kill Him. They fear for their lives. No one who might help them safely escape Jerusalem can be trusted. Already, they’ve lost control of the Lord’s body, which they must take with them to properly re-bury in Nazareth. Fearing removal of the corpse from its borrowed tomb will fuel rumors of resurrection, Jesus’s enemies have arranged for a Roman sentry to stand guard around the clock. This cuts off any possibility of sneaking out of town overnight.

Much as it pains me to point out, the disciples respond to these problems along gender-typical lines. The men hunker down “with the doors locked for fear of the Jews.” (John 20.19) They can’t do anything until they get their bearings. But the women—ah, the women—have greater concerns than personal safety and exit strategies. Keeping tabs on Christ’s body is most important to them. They’ve just seen sadistic injustices committed against His person. They have zero faith His remains will be treated respectfully until He reaches His final resting place. It is they who follow Joseph of Arimathea to learn exactly where he buries Jesus. According to Luke, they use the little time left before Sabbath to prepare spices and perfumes to ready Christ’s body for removal on Sunday morning. The longer they hide in Jerusalem, the less likely this will be feasible. As dawn breaks, they’re dressed and headed to the tomb, hoping for the best—they’ll find His body unmolested and be allowed to move Him—but fearing the worst. Nearing the tomb, their hearts break. It’s even worse than they imagined.

Remember?

The guard has fled the scene. The unattended tomb has been pried open, its heavy stone pushed completely to the side, indicating the work of a several men. Without stepping into the crypt, they know Jesus’s body is gone. But their anguish turns to chilling horror when they find His grave clothes left behind. Somewhere, Christ’s naked body is the centerpiece of a macabre celebration, the butt of a grotesque joke, or the victim of a final degradation contrived by His enemies. The confluence of emotions—gut-wrenching grief, panic, terror, and disgust—unleashes a bottomless sea of wails. The women fall upon one another, trying in vain to support each other. They crumble to the tomb floor. So engulfing is their sorrow a moment passes before they sense they’re not alone.

They look up to see “two men in clothes that gleamed like lightning.” (Luke 24.4) Before the women can collect their thoughts to see if the strangers can tell them what’s happened to Jesus, the men ask, “Why do you look for the living among the dead?” They know the women are looking for Jesus and why not finding Him overwhelms them with grief. “He isn’t here,” they say. “He has risen!” (v6) Risen? The consternation on the women’s faces begs further explanation. “Remember?” the messengers respond. “Remember how he told you, while he was still with you in Galilee: ‘The Son of Man must be delivered into the hands of sinful men, be crucified and on the third day be raised again.’” (v6-7) Clarity breaks through their overcast spirits. Christ’s voice stirs in the sleepy hollows of their memory. In their mindfulness of religious burial conventions, they’d let His assurance slip from their thoughts. “Then they remembered his words,” Luke writes in verse 8.

In the Now

Today we rejoice in the greatest day in human history. We make our pilgrimage to the tomb not to find Christ, but to confirm He isn’t there. By the time we arrive, He’s somewhere else—alive among the living, no longer paralyzed by the past, but forever present in the now. Although we approach the grave fully expecting to see it torn open, with Christ gone, His grave clothes piled on the plinth, and angelic messengers to inform us that He has risen, we also need our memories shaken. If all we take from Easter is the promise of new life, we come away with nothing. Easter isn’t about promises but realities. Its message can only be found among the living, not the dead. People and places entombed by doubt and logic, religious legalism and convention, irrational fear and hatred exist. But they're not alive. They’re shrouded in the past and ossified behind heavy stones of false pride and power, lifeless in darkness hidden by ornate architecture. None of this moves us, however, because we don't linger in cemeteries. We only pass this way to remember new life is already ours. We belong with the living, not the dead—in the now, not the past.

In Romans 8.11, we read, “If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead is living in you, he who raised Christ from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies through his Spirit, who lives in you.” The power of resurrection is alive and resides in each of us. We defy death every day, not merely in the physical sense, but also in our spiritual, emotional, and intellectual lives. We cannot be defeated by deadly influences, feelings, and ideas—or the torments they inflict. We are first, foremost, and always alive.

By all means, we honor the Easter women’s sacred intentions. Still, they got it wrong. They forgot Christ's teaching. They succumbed to the conventional notion that preserving His remains in a safe place would keep the memory of Jesus alive. But the Spirit of resurrection alive in Christ would not allow Him to be sealed in the past. Defeat was impossible. That’s why the women arrived at the tomb to learn He was already somewhere else, alive among the living, alive in the now. May the same Spirit of resurrection that lives in every one of us grant us the power to follow Him.

With prayers for a joyously alive Easter to each of you.

We pass by the empty tomb to remind us Jesus is somewhere else—alive among the living, alive in the moment. And we follow Him there.

Postscript: Easter Alive

If you’ve never celebrated Easter in a large Pentecostal church, I strongly advise adding it to your list of “must-do” sacred experiences. At some point, the choir invariably breaks out an up-tempo selection very much like this “Church Medley” of age-old “testimony songs” by The Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir. And, oh my, the rejoicing begins! From side-to-side, front-to-back not a soul can doubt they’ve found the risen Christ among the living, in the now. Enjoy!

CHURCH MEDLEY

I call on Jesus, a Wonderful Counselor

Oh, glory hallelujah

Oh, glory hallelujah

Glory hallelujah to the Risen King

Living, He loved me

Dying, He saved me

Buried, He carried my sins far away

Rising, He justified

Freed me forever

One day He's coming back

O glorious day

Oh, glory hallelujah...

Send it on down, Lord

Send it on down

Lord, let the Holy Ghost come on down

We can't do nothing

"Til you send it down

Lord, let the Holy Ghost come on down

Oh, glory hallelujah...