Beefs

The one who eats everything must not treat with contempt the one who does not, and the one who does not eat everything must not judge the one who does, for God has accepted them. (Romans 14.3)

Today’s post runs twice the usual length to cover essentials we’ll need as the next post commences our study of “clobber texts” used to alienate LGBT and other Christians. I trust you’ll overlook the wordiness and hang with me. Upcoming posts will return to the typical length.

Personal Ethics

My medical ethics professor was a soft-spoken woman who gently guided our debates on hot topics like reproductive rights, life support, and assisted suicide, seeing each opinion received equal weight and respect. Near term’s end, the syllabus noted a session on “dietary ethics” with no assigned reading. “In-class film” was all it said. The half-hour film graphically documented grossly inhumane methods of industrial husbandry and slaughter. When the film ended, it was clear our professor had drastically departed from her trademark style. We heard a 15-minute tirade on the evils of meat consumption, followed by a stilted exchange in which she shut down any objection before it was fully tendered. The class dried up. Finally, a brave young woman asked, “Is this a test?” The instructor asked what she meant. “You don’t seem to want us to discuss this objectively,” she observed. “It’s more about your personal ethics, which you’re obviously passionate about. But, unless this is an exercise in approaching someone with set opinions, I don’t get the point. Isn’t this issue like the rest? It also has many aspects: medical, cultural, moral, pragmatic—“

The professor stopped her. “My point is some issues leave no room for debate because no morally legitimate exceptions exist.” The class exploded. What about vitamin deficiency? That’s what supplements are for. What about leather? She pointed to her rubber shoes and fake leather belt. Then someone asked if she had pets. “Three cats,” she said. Were we to assume she never fed them meat? After an uncomfortable pause, she replied, “Almost never.” Why would she ever give her cats meat? She explained, “If they go too long without it, they start to shed, and get listless and grumpy.” (As was the case then; vegetarian friends tell me nutritional quality of meatless pet food has greatly improved.) “So,” the student asked, “is it safe to say, for the sake of their health and happiness, no moral alternative to meat consumption exists?” She smiled with relief. “You could say that.” Another pause. “I should give this more thought,” she said.

Meat and Vegetables

Although time has stolen the professor’s name and much of what she taught, my memory of the “dietary ethics” session remains vivid, thanks to regularly revisiting Paul’s treatise on faith ethics in Romans 14. In part, it’s because he discusses the same issue: morality of an omnivorous diet versus vegetarianism. But, more than that, it’s because his conclusion verifies what ultimately came of the class discussion: absolutes are only helpful in firmly defined contexts. Under different circumstances, they may not hold up as soundly—or we may have to admit the complete opposite is the correct position. Many times, our disagreements escalate so quickly—we come out swinging—we don’t consider the possibility we’re confusing absolutes with personal ethics and/or personal ethics with what philosophers call situational ethics, flexible application of absolutes that set aside personal misgiving to serve higher principle. (Basically, it’s trying to do the right thing in any given situation.) As one might expect, many refute situational ethics out-of-hand as unscriptural and inconsistent with God’s immutable nature. They’re convinced right is right, wrong is wrong, and no gray area exists between. Yet how can this be, when Scripture teaches we’re incorrect to assess others’ faith by rigid standards, since no two believers’ circumstances are alike? That’s the crux of Paul’s instruction. He deliberately cites the meat-and-vegetables issue, as it’s one of the most inflammatory problems the Romans grapple with.

A little background helps us grasp the topic’s gravity. (Examining the text without it is close to useless, since the matter looks trivial in our eyes.) The question isn’t as simple as whether Christians eat meat or confine their diet to vegetables. Meat is a rare commodity in Rome, the known world’s largest metropolis. It’s too costly for average households and very difficult to procure. The best sources for fresh meat are pagan temples, where leftovers from animal sacrifices are served in affordable portions or distributed for sale in public bazaars.

Therefore, meat consumption is theologically questionable for Gentile converts, as many presume it’s tainted with paganism. (Contrary to popular myth, animal sacrifice is nothing like a Texas barbecue, with the entire beast sprawled atop a sacred slab. Priests slaughter and eviscerate the animal and bring its vital organs to the altar, where they’re burned. The carcass is butchered and eaten.) For Jewish converts, the issue is twice complicated. Beyond pagan contamination, Judaic law forbids anyone other than the presiding priest and his sons from consuming sacrificial meat; and they’re to eat it inside the Temple, as it isn’t to be publically consumed.

Trusting Each Other

What happens in the Roman congregation is what always happens when faith communities attempt to mandate inflexible standards based on religious ideology and outmoded edicts. One group dismisses the issue as irrelevant. They believe if eaten with thanksgiving, meat is harmless. The other group isn’t so sure. To be on the safe side, they endorse restricting diet to vegetables—since one can never say with certainty where marketed meat originates. “Live and let live” is just too hard a concept to abide. It puts the onus for assessing and complying with Scripture on the individual. For many, that’s a surefire road to ruin. Someone’s got to be in charge, lest the whole thing falls apart. One group must be declared “right” at the expense of the other being declared “wrong.” Naturally, both believe they’re right and since neither can definitively prove it’s correct, each tries to prove the other is not.

Thus begins the Roman diet drama, with meat-eaters looking down on vegetarians, accusing them of being too spineless to bear responsibility for freedom in Christ. Vegetarians condemn omnivores for trampling sacred principle in pursuit of self-indulgence. Before we cluck at both for rushing to judgment, we should note two things. Their stubborn fervor is born of earnest desire to please God. And much is at stake in how they resolve this, as it will decide to what degree (if any) the Roman church and Roman society overlap. How much of the “outside world” is too much? How little isn’t enough? These are defining questions with no definitive answers. Which is why Paul tells them to quit pretending they know what God thinks, says, and expects and prove their trust in God by trusting each other.

God Can and Does

Paul calls off the meat-and-vegetables debate in four quick verses (Romans 14.1-4). How he characterizes the drama is a revelation all by itself: “Accept the one whose faith is weak, without quarreling over disputable matters. One person’s faith allows them to eat anything, but another, whose faith is weak, eats only vegetables. The one who eats everything must not treat with contempt the one who does not, and the one who does not eat everything must not judge the one who does, for God has accepted them. Who are you to judge someone else’s servant? To their own master, servants stand or fall. And they will stand, for the Lord is able to make them stand.”

Let’s walk through this. Step One: Our obligation is to embrace weaker believers. “Quarreling over disputable matters”—i.e., beefs over valid faith and practices—harms those who lack strength and experience to accept how we practice our faith. It’s a fruitless endeavor that sullies our witness. Step Two: The more seasoned and sure our faith, the more we can digest. Freedom isn’t free; it requires great courage and confidence. Those not strong enough to exercise freedom in Christ seek stability in restrictions. Strong believers must not criticize weaker ones for relying on hard boundaries and fast rules. Yet withholding criticism does not amount to concession that restrictive lifestyles are exclusively “right.” Weak believers who find definition and assurance in restrictions must not overstep and vilify believers who live more freely.

Step Three: God’s acceptance of those who defy limits and stereotypes is a fact. Step Four: Strong or weak, we have no right to judge, because all our service—in its many shapes and expressions—belongs to God. We may not agree with, understand, or be like one another. But condemning or expressing doubt in each other assumes status we don’t possess. When I say you’re wrong, I kick God off the throne so I can have a seat. It’s a foolish, perilous assumption we can’t afford. Step Five: Like it or not, we all serve the same God. Honor God receives from our faith rests entirely in God’s power to raise us in righteousness. How this happens confounds human understanding. It makes no earthly sense that God ensures we stand equally as worthy vessels and reflections, when all we see are contradictions. Yet God can and does.

Causes for Concern

Shouldn’t we be marginally concerned our need to prove we’re right only arises when we’re compelled to prove another wrong? Doesn’t the phrase—“need to prove we’re right”—reveal causes for concern about the strength of our faith? If we’re truly confident our beliefs are founded on Scriptural truth and please God, why the need to prove it at all? Shouldn’t it trouble us just a little that judging or challenging another’s faith gives lie to our confidence in God? Attacking anyone whose faith ethics and practices don’t align with ours locks us in the perilous and (dare I say it?) pathetic position of misappropriating God’s role as Master. We ignore the principle of inherent equality for all believers by supposing we’re more righteous or knowledgeable than our peers. We forget faith is logic’s opposite. Trust creates certainty. Submission grants authority. Humility brings respect. When stronger Christians contemptuously regard weaker ones as ignorant and arrogant, and weaker ones accuse stronger ones of sin and arrogance, both groups err by imposing logic on faith—and both reveal they have no idea what they’re doing. If they did, they wouldn’t do it.

Finally, if we’re aware we’ve overreached, yet continue on, lack of concern about our hubris and damage our beefs inflict is a grave concern. In John 13.16, Jesus draws a clear, indelible line between God and us: “Very truly I tell you, no servant is greater than his master, nor is a messenger greater than the one who sent him.” We must be very wary about eagerness to speak for God; it takes all of a second to cross the line and start talking like we are God. That’s the falsehood cleverly disguised in the credo “Love the sinner; hate the sin.” Both “sinner” and “sin” are baldly prejudicial terms based on insight and authority we don’t have. Who are we to judge? Worse still, who are we to justify scriptural abuse with a patently unscriptural premise? Jesus commands us to love our neighbors as ourselves—attaching no right to qualify our love based on their attitudes or behavior. He answers the “sin” question by teaching us how to pray: Forgive our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us. We need to hear “against us” loud and clear. We respond to personal offenses with mercy. Nowhere does Scripture authorize us to mount a preemptive strike against “sin.” Again, challenging those whose beliefs and practices don’t align with ours—or answering their challenges in kind—only shows we don’t know what we’re doing.

Close examination of exclusionary “clobber texts” starting in the next post by no means intends to arm us with materiel to settle beefs with fellow believers. We must be very clear about that. Value from our studies will emerge when informed understanding of clobber passages shields us from scriptural abuse and unprovoked attacks. Accurate knowledge of what God’s Word says enables faithful obedience to Christ: “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be children of your Father in heaven.” (Matthew 5.44-45)

Paul calls off Rome’s meat-and-vegetables debate, telling both sides judgment and condescension exceed their authority. There is one God, one Master, and God ensures we all will stand as equally worthy servants.

Tradition!

You nullify the word of God for the sake of your tradition. You hypocrites! Isaiah was right when he prophesied about you: “These people honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me. They worship me in vain; their teachings are merely human rules.” (Matthew 15.6-9)

Slipping Away

It took 30 years, five productions and several viewings of Norman Jewison’s superb film for me to warm to Fiddler on the Roof. Why the show held the top spot in Broadway’s Greatest Hits list for more than a decade was never a mystery. It’s a smashing piece of theater with enough heart and soul for a dozen musicals. As everyone knows, the songs are splendid—not a dud in the whole lot. Its greatest strength, however, is tough-mindedness. The poor Jewish milkman, Tevye, his wife and five daughters, and the rest of their tiny Russian village are very aware their way of life is slipping away. Peasants are deserting their farms for big-city factories. Urban diversity is dissolving ethnic ties, while young people flock to universities, where they learn to question time-honored values and customs. Political unrest hangs in the air. Soon the masses will seize power, hurling the entire nation into chaos. Although Fiddler has more laughs than most musicals scramble up, nearly every one catches in the throat. Laughing in disaster’s face can only be so funny for so long. Then it starts to hurt.

I got all of this when I first saw the show as a 12-year-old kid straining with all his might to be a “sophisticated” theatergoer. Looking back, laughing at disaster was the decisive criterion I used to measure a musical’s greatness—a reasonable position for an adolescent sensing a huge, potentially disastrous life-change around the corner. With hard-edged hits like Gypsy, Cabaret, Funny Girl, and A Chorus Line sending me into swoons, Fiddler on the Roof should have as well.

Why did Fiddler leave me cold? I couldn’t figure it out—until writing an essay on movie musicals a few years ago. Fiddler hews to the formula without fitting the mold. It’s not about defiant non-conformity. It’s about mourning loss of certainty as everything you’re told to believe swiftly fades into the past. The show’s opening number, “Tradition,” tells us all about the characters’ lives and expectations. When the final curtain falls, none of it remains. A young person can’t relate to such sorrow. One must rack up a few miles and experience a few losses to feel the full blow of watching tradition slip away. It’s a terrible, painful thing to face, which is why so many would rather cling to obsolete traditions than let them go.

Outlasting Significance

Suppose we think about tradition for a moment—not specific customs, beliefs, and rituals, but tradition itself. It’s an odd, intriguing thing. Rarely does tradition burst to life unassisted. We call suddenly popular practices “trends” or “crazes” to indicate they’ll be short-lived, which most are. Tradition is typically introduced in adjunct with something greater: a principle, milestone, celebration, or imperative. Its initial purpose revolves around promoting the significance and continuity of whatever it’s meant to uphold. Yet over time, tradition tends to supplant what it was created to signify because social and scientific progress moves the culture away from its original reason for being. “God bless you” is a great example. It became the traditional response to sneezing as the result of medieval superstition that the millisecond a sneeze preoccupied our senses was all the time the devil needed to sneak into our bodies. “God bless you,” then, started as a counterstrike to diabolical possession. We stopped believing that when we discovered why we sneeze. But we never stopped blessing sneezers.

By and large, preserving hangover traditions that enhance our comfort and sense of continuity is a benign habit. In arenas of faith, however, misconceived or outmoded tradition can easily become the enemy of faith by creating confusion that fosters discord among believers. Isolating beneficial faith traditions from insignificant ones can be difficult, as transmission of faith from person to person and generation to generation most often occurs via tradition. Because faith—like love, truth, and patriotism—is abstract, a veritable garden of traditional symbols, rites, vocabulary, and (yes) superstitions crop up around its towering principles.

Enduring Christian traditions, such as baptism, Communion, and Lent remain sacrosanct due to their timeless significance; they’re immune to culture shifts and social progress. Yet there are also traditions many adamantly maintain that lost their value long ago. They now alienate believers and, in some cases, actually subvert Biblical principles speaking to issues we currently confront. Perhaps the most prominent examples exist in traditions that base ministerial rights on gender, marital status, and orientation. While scriptures can be found to justify some (though not all) of these criteria, opposing scriptures nullify such practices in principle. Thus, they’re doctrinally unsound. Furthermore, their legitimacy has always been dubious, as they were instituted as policies to safeguard church coffers from estate suits by spouses and children of deceased pastors. Given the shortage of dedicated ministers, abuses of power by men with no familial duties, huge advances in social equality, and the advent of the insurance industry, these traditions make no sense. They’re detrimentally unsound and obsolete. Yet they persist, rigidly upheld on the rickets of selective application of Scripture. And many, like Tevye and the other Fiddler characters, cling to them for no better reason than fear of letting go. In Matthew 15, Jesus confronts a group of tradition-bound Pharisees and boldly (some might even say angrily) challenges their customs’ significance—not that they were ever significant to begin with.

Dirty Hands

The unpleasant little dust-up starts with the disciples’ dirty hands. For centuries, Jews have practiced an elaborate washing-up ritual at mealtimes, presumably as an act of worship. No reliable Scripture supports their custom—certainly no bona fide law or commandment—yet over time the tradition has become regarded as law. At best, it’s an extrapolation of Temple protocol ordained in Exodus 30.17-21, which commands Aaron and his sons (the priestly caste) to wash their hands and feet before preparing food offerings. One might think of it as a lovely tradition that preserves worship in the home between high holy days—a nice-to-have, but certainly no legal obligation. Due to their makeshift existence, the disciples have no home. As such, the custom holds no significance for them. When some Pharisees and legalists learn the disciples often eat with dirty hands, they make a special trip from Jerusalem to accuse Jesus of irresponsibly allowing His followers to “break the tradition of the elders.” (Matthew 15.2) By the time He’s finished with them, they probably wish they’d stayed at home and minded their business.

Jesus gives them less credit than we have here. He doesn’t bother pointing out the exaggerated use of irrelevant Scripture that gave rise to the practice. Instead, He indicts their legalistic proclivity by refuting another tradition that has no scriptural basis whatsoever. He replies, “Why do you break the command of God for the sake of your tradition? For God said, ‘Honor your father and mother’ and ‘Anyone who curses their father or mother is to be put to death.’ But you say that if anyone declares that what might have been used to help their father or mother is ‘devoted to God,’ they are not to ‘honor their father or mother’ with it. Thus you nullify the word of God for the sake of your tradition.” (v3-6)

Here’s what Jesus is talking about. In ancient Judaism, family wealth is held in common for all members of the extended family. What belongs to the father belongs to the son and vice versa. This is a divinely ordained practice per the laws Jesus cites (Exodus 20.12 and Deuteronomy 5.16, respectively), also evidenced in repeated commands to care for widows and orphans. Over time, however, some legal eagle devised a loophole that became instantly popular. If a son formally pledges his entire wealth will be given to the Temple at his death, he can refuse requests for assistance on the grounds all of his money is “devoted to God.” Designating his wealth as a “personal vow” (2 Kings 12.4) shields him from legal obligation to care about his family's financial security. And it's a major contributor to the widespread neglect of widowed mothers and abandoned orphans. (Essentially, it's a cleverly conceived version of current tax shelters that encourage people to hide their money rather than reduce their tax liability by writing off family dependents and charitable contributions.)

Jesus negates the nosy Pharisees’ challenge by questioning the validity of tradition in general. He says they're all worthy of reevaluation to test their legitimacy vis-à-vis principles of faith, not just legal acceptability or literal conformity to Scripture. Jesus sets the standard for tradition far above chapter-and-verse citation or customary beliefs and practices handed down over time. “You hypocrites!” He hisses. “Isaiah was right when he prophesied about you: ‘These people honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me. They worship me in vain; their teachings are merely human rules.’” (v7-9; Isaiah 29.13) Jesus shows us it’s entirely possible to construct far-fetched scriptural rationales for attitudes and behaviors that directly oppose the principles of God’s Word. In the end, if our words, worship, and teaching contradict eternal truth consistently found in The Bible, we’re clinging to detrimental traditions at our peril. We’re hypocrites. We honor God with our lips, but our hearts are far from God. Dirty hands are one thing; distant hearts is another.

This Process

With regret for this post’s length, I believe it’s essential we prepare our hearts and minds for upcoming discussions that will deconstruct the “clobber texts” many use to condemn LGBT and other unorthodox believers. (We’ll begin in earnest next week, after a second prefatory post to ensure we’re approaching the texts from a balanced perspective.) What we see in Matthew 15 is an example of culture wars that often arise within the halls of faith. Adoption of traditions that transmit faith’s principles opens the door for other traditions that either blatantly contradict faith’s truths or outlast their usefulness. Without question, those who wage cultural wars of exclusion and condemnation within the Church fit the Pharisees’ profile. They go out of their way to attack anyone who doesn’t conform to customs and selectively upheld beliefs. Yet we must also recognize the majority of those who question our faith don’t fit the profile. They don’t come looking for fights. Nor are they adequately equipped to respond to many of the points we’ll raise against erroneous or obsolete teaching they’ve received. Despite the virulence of their words, they mean no harm. And even when they do, it’s our duty in obedience to Christ’s commands to do no harm. (We’ll cover that in the next post.)

As the Holy Spirit steers the Church back to the lavish inclusion, equality, and compassion that set it apart from every human institution—in keeping with God’s stated will and purpose—many who cherish baseless, outmoded traditions face the same kinds of sorrows we see in Fiddler on the Roof. Life as they know it is slipping away. They’re aware of that. Yet they’re uncertain what it means. What we hail as progress feels like loss to them. We hear notes of grief in their hostility, shrieks of panic in their insistence. They must go through this process for themselves, trusting God’s grace to bring them through. Our responsibility is threefold. First, we must uphold them in prayer and love. Second, we must remain steadfast in our humility and faithfulness, serving as worthy examples of acceptance and tolerance. Third, we must never yield our commitment to be obedient to God’s Word, His Spirit’s guidance, and Christ’s commands. Faith isn’t a matter of being right or wrong. It’s our means of being reconciled to God.

Blessing a sneezer is a prime example of tradition that outlasts its usefulness. Yet tradition is nothing to sneeze at. As the Spirit guides people of faith through change, we recognize the fears that accompany letting go of baseless, outmoded traditions.

Postscript: Fiddler’s “Tradition”

Fiddler on the Roof’s fabulous opening is something of a set-up. It invites us to relish the “balance” its villagers enjoy because of long-held tradition and then yanks the rug from beneath us by showing how clinging to tradition often causes us to lose our balance. The world turns. Times change. Progress pulls us along. Traditions outlast their usefulness and slip away. (From the 1971 Norman Jewison film version.)

The Good Book and Bad Intentions

Jesus replied, “You are in error because you do not know the Scriptures or the power of God.” (Matthew 22.29)

Monkeying with God’s Word

Oh, how we love to argue Biblical truth by inflicting personal opinions and preferences on what God wants us to hear! Whoever first observed it’s possible for anyone to support anything with Scripture was a genius. The disjointed, non-collaborative process by which it came to be, centuries involved in its writing and assembly, unparalleled range of topics and information it contains, and—most of all—the profound mysteries thrumming through its lines and around its edges make The Bible a handy, all-purpose tool to excuse or defend whatever suits our fancies. Because we (supposedly) believe the Bible is God’s Word, one would think we’d approach it reverently and apply it cautiously, even fearfully, as its authority exclusively rests on belief in God’s infinite wisdom, power, and supremacy. Otherwise, if we suspect God is anything less or something other than GOD, what God says to us through Scripture holds little to no consequence for us.

Taking God out of God’s Word reduces The Bible to an encyclopedia of ancient history, poetry, and proverbs—surely the greatest volume of human insights ever compiled, yet human nonetheless. Were this so, we could shelve The Bible beside The Sayings of Confucius, Poor Richard’s Almanac, Bartlett’s Quotations, and other ready-made resources of mortal wit. We could pick and choose from it as we please, as though its pages stored a treasure of quips for every occasion and rationale for any earthly idea, from noblest to basest—if The Bible were a hodgepodge of philosophical tidbits, fables, and trivia. But that’s precisely what The Bible is not. Despite the extraordinary factors affecting its gradual creation and eventual shape, God’s pervasively consistent voice is the Binding Force that unifies and balances Scripture as all of a piece. It’s one Book comprised of 66 books penned by different people addressing many issues in wildly different times and places, all witnessing the miracle of divine inspiration by advancing one theme with one focus: restoring humanity’s hope by reconciling its relationship with God. From cover-to-cover, the message remains the same. To do what pleases our Maker, we must undo everything that displeases God and inevitably precipitates our own undoing.

Thus, The Bible isn’t amenable to selective reading, nor its contents available for selective use. “All Scripture is God-breathed and is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness, so that the servant of God may be thoroughly equipped for every good work,” Paul writes in 2 Timothy 3.16-17 (emphasis added). Usage that detracts from The Bible’s overarching theme and/or undermines its overriding objective serves no godly purpose. It’s an illegitimate product of those who ignorantly mate The Good Book and Bad Intentions. Since they’re monkeying with God’s Word, the grave danger they invite should make Scriptural abuses very rare. Yet it happens all the time.

Silly Riddles

Flagrantly manipulating Scripture to manipulate hearts and minds—along with its flipside, exploiting Sacred Writ for material gain—constitutes unrivalled audacity. Therefore, we aren’t shocked that those bold enough to attempt it are equally fearless in their determination to succeed. Nor are we surprised that they target people who are scripturally gullible and susceptible to imbalanced doctrine and baseless dogma. Naïve, non-inquisitive recruits make the bravest of soldiers once they’re convinced they’re defending the “truth.” We observe this dynamic in Matthew 22.

A company of intrepid Sadducees engages Jesus in a battle of words on their pet topic, resurrection. Belief in life after death is where they part ways with the Pharisees, who teach resurrection, while the Sadducees refute it. Given the Pharisees’ overwhelming majority, Jesus’s mastery of their doctrine’s finer points, and His own comfort with preaching resurrection—for obvious reasons—most scholars presume He identifies as a Pharisee. (Nothing like our popular I’m-spiritual-but-not-religious default position exists in first-century Palestine. There are no non-denominational synagogues or ecumenical groups, either. Every Jew publicly embraces a theological tradition and sticks with it.) So the Sadducees confront Jesus not as God’s Son, but as a Rabbi from the opposition. And their challenge is no off-the-cuff premise. It’s one of those silly riddles Bible abusers cook up to corner opponents—the Sadducee equivalent of “If God meant people to be gay, why did God create Adam and Eve instead of Adam and Steve?”

Here’s what the Sadducees propose: A woman marries a man with six brothers. When he dies, in keeping with Mosaic Law, she marries one of his brothers. When that husband dies, she marries another brother. On it goes until all seven brothers are dead and then she dies. How does this scenario get resolved in the afterlife? Whose wife will she be? Jesus refuses to dignify the riddle by attacking its naked intention and outlandish scenario. Instead, He cuts right to the chase. The Sadducees have selectively pounced on one scripture (Deuteronomy 25.5) and cleverly manipulated it to pose an argument they think sufficiently disproves Pharisaical belief in the afterlife, when their riddle proves how oblivious they are to Scripture’s overarching message. “You are in error because you do not know the Scriptures or the power of God,” Jesus replies. “At the resurrection people will neither marry nor be given in marriage; they will be like the angels in heaven. But about the resurrection of the dead—have you not read what God said to you, ‘I am the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob’? He is not the God of the dead but of the living.” (Matthew 22.29-32) Harping on one verse to condemn those who worship the same God, yet hold differing beliefs, misses the point. Wakefully doing God’s will in this life far outweighs dreaming up scenarios of what God will do in the life to come.

Fellowship and Right Relationship

Paul’s instruction to Timothy about proper use of Scripture is wisdom we all should take to heart. “Keep reminding God’s people of these things. Warn them before God against quarreling about words; it is of no value and only ruins those who listen. Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved, a worker who does not need to be ashamed and who correctly handles the word of truth. Avoid godless chatter, because those who indulge in it will become more and more ungodly. Their teaching will spread like gangrene.” (2 Timothy 2.14-17) The Bible isn’t an armory; it’s God’s Word. We don’t rifle through its pages in search of weapons to deploy in defense of personal opinions and preferred dogma. It’s the height of audacity to imagine we can pull one scripture over here, another over there, and weld them into a club with which to clobber fellow-believers who hold differing views.

In Psalm 119.130, David exclaims, “The unfolding of your words gives light; it gives understanding to the simple.” God’s Word gives light. Through it, the Holy Spirit speaks promises of hope and reconciliation that open our eyes and illuminate our lives. That’s Scripture’s purpose in a nutshell. While we’ll never grasp how this happens, why it happens is so basic anyone can understand it. In 2 Corinthians 6.14, we’re asked, “What do righteousness and wickedness have in common? Or what fellowship can light have with darkness?” And 1 John 1.7 gives us the answer: “If we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus, his Son, purifies us from all sin.” The light of God’s Word is given to bring us together in fellowship and right relationship with God. Misusing The Good Book with Bad Intentions divides us and blinds us to God’s power. Those who manipulate and exploit Scripture for such purposes merit our pity and forgiveness. By no means do they deserve our attention or respect.

The Bible is not a weapon we deploy in defense of personal opinions and preferred dogma. It’s a light that draws us together and reconciles us to God.

Postscript: “Clobber Texts”

In tandem with a two-part study my pastor is conducting on “clobber texts”—i.e., scriptures taken out of context and erroneously used to condemn other believers (especially gay ones)—we’ll spend the next few posts examining them. I pray everyone who’s been frustrated, intimidated, or outraged by this practice will benefit from what we discuss in order to dismiss “clobber” manipulation and irrelevance out-of-hand.

We're Everywhere

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

Undertow

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

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

Uncommon People

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

All the lonely people

Where do they all come from?

All the lonely people

Where do they all belong?

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

Common Misgivings

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

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

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

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

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

Postscript: “I Need You to Survive”

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

Finishing the Job

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

Always More

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

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

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

The Miracle of Our Making

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

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

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

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

Hope and a Future

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

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

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

No Comparison

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

Restoring Balance

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

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

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

Boasting

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

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

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

Divorcing Faith from Myth

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

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

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

Postscript: "Father’s Eyes"

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

Open Eyes

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

A Fleeting Figure

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

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

Blanks

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

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

Profoundly Intimate

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

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

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

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