Our House

As you come to him, the living Stone—rejected by men but chosen by God and precious to him—you also, like living stones, are being built into a spiritual house to be a holy priesthood, offering spiritual sacrifices to God through Jesus Christ. (1 Peter 2.4-5) 

Stacking Up

One summer during my early school years, our landlord bought a truckload of bricks and dumped them in our backyard. My brother and I waited to see what they’d be used for. Several weeks passed and there they sat. Unable to resist the urge to do something with them, we set out to build a brick fort by stacking them in vertical rows. We actually got further than we should have. It was nearly shoulder-high before the whole fort crashed down, sending us to our mother to tend to our scrapes and bruises. She was not pleased. “What made you think you knew how to build a brick fort?” she asked. After she patched us up, she went out to oversee the clean up and saw what we’d done wrong. She showed us how bricklayers stagger bricks atop one another to stabilize them. “If they’re not put together in a certain way,” she said, “they’ll never stand. All you were doing was stacking up piles.”

Since this is the closest I'll likely ever come to building anything of bricks, it’s always the first memory that springs to mind when I read 1 Peter 2. And it’s not a bad one, either. In Peter’s scenario, God is the bricklayer and we’re the bricks, which should be a comfort to us. We leave the construction expertise to Him by serving His purpose where and how we’re placed. It’s also a bracing reminder He’s in charge of the design and soundness of His work. Given our childlike lack of knowledge and skill, were we to build His house we’d no doubt resort to stacking up stones and end up battered by a collapsed brick pile. Paul also taps into this metaphor in Ephesians 2.22: “In [Christ] you too are being built together to become a dwelling in which God lives by his Spirit.” In other words, our role is not in the doing. It’s in the being, availing ourselves to God’s work. When we commit to this, He’s able to use us as He sees fit and we’re able to fit snugly and securely in His plan.

A Place for Every Brick

Anyone who’s ever been made to feel unworthy or superfluous by self-appointed brick stackers will find solace in Peter and Paul’s house metaphors, because God’s acceptance is the foundation for both. Peter introduces his by comparing us to Christ, “the living Stone—rejected by men but chosen by God and precious to him.” (2 Peter 2.4) And Paul sets the stage when he says, “Consequently, you are no longer foreigners and aliens, but fellow citizens with God’s people and members of God’s household.” (Ephesians 2.19) Both encourage us to disregard how others identify or label us because manmade ID tags don’t apply. We identify with Christ, the living Stone, or in Paul’s case, “the chief cornerstone.” (v20) Paul’s reference directly connects to Jesus’s self-identification when He refers to Psalm 118: “Jesus said to them, ‘Have you never read the Scriptures: "The stone the builders rejected has become the capstone; the Lord has done this, and it is marvelous in our eyes?"’” In this light, feeling or being rejected becomes a proof point that we are indeed like Christ, living stones precious to God and worthy of use.

In the construction of God’s house, there’s a place for every brick, and every brick is perfectly placed. Since the work is never completed, it’s impossible for us to discern its final design. Therefore, it’s unwise to dismiss others or allow others to dismiss us as unsuitable for God’s use. No doubt some of these lively stones are chosen and placed for more decorative purposes. But others are selected solely for their strength and usefulness in creating tension that holds the entire edifice together. Because we are all built on the living Stone and each of us in his/her own way functions as a living stone, we can’t forget that this project is an organic process that requires constant refinement and embellishment to accomplish its original plan. Where we’re placed and what we’re asked to do inevitably changes us in unexpected ways. Some of us grow less flippant and more earnest. Others of us lighten up and learn to be more accepting. But if we’re truly alive to God’s purpose, sooner or later, we all come to recognize what we must do to ensure the house He’s building will continue to rise and endure.

Carrying On

A couple years ago, Walt and I visited Barcelona, home of Antoni Gaudí’s famously unfinished cathedral, La Sagrada Familia. Walking over to the site, we weren’t sure what to expect and talked most of the way about how strange it was that hundreds of craftsmen have worked for nearly a century on a building that had no congregation. There was no place sufficiently completed to house worshippers, which made it the ultimate “build-it-and-they-will-come” plan. As we circled the interior, watching artisans carry on Gaudí’s work, Walt observed the cathedral was as much theirs as the legendary architect’s. “These people will die before it’s finished, too,” he said. “But they’ll die knowing they played their part in finishing its construction.”

Playing our part as lively stones makes God’s house our house. Each of us is one of millions upon millions of bricks jointly fitted together. We are built on generations of older bricks and placed so future bricks can build upon us. It’s not ours to be concerned with stacker mentality or opinions. These people have promoted themselves into site foremen and junior architects. They’re not essential to the process and unaware of the grand design. Their schemes and aesthetics will be lost to time, while God’s plan will reach total fruition. Look back at Ephesians 2.22. We are “being built together to become a dwelling in which God lives by his Spirit.” He lives in us, which is what makes us—the stones in His house, our house—come alive with His Spirit. At the end of the day, what anyone else thinks won’t matter. Knowing we played a part in carrying on God’s work will.

Workers in La Sagrada Familia. Just as their contribution to Gaudí's work makes it their own, playing our role as lively stones in God's house makes it our house.

(Next: Fasting)

Beauty

One thing I ask of the LORD, this is what I seek: that I may dwell in the house of the LORD all the days of my life, to gaze upon the beauty of the LORD and to seek him in his temple. (Psalm 27.4)

Gazing

Here’s a little exercise. Steal away to a quiet place free from any intrusive visual and aural stimuli. Close your eyes and “look” at God. Chances are the first images you see correspond with those implanted in your youth. He/She is a “god”—an immense, translucent Entity enthroned in Heaven. Once your eyes adjust to His/Her brightness, God takes on one or more personages you personally embrace: a Parent, Creator, Friend, Savior, et al. The abstract quickly takes on a concrete, finite form. But keep looking. Allow those pictures to melt away until the boundaries confining God become meaningless and a more transfixing portrait emerges. He/She becomes less defined as a Being than a Presence, an ineffable feeling of pure love, light, and perfection—in other words, unparalleled Beauty.

Looking at God, then, involves gazing into the Presence to absorb its purity and power in ways that confound articulation or descriptors. When we “behold the beauty of the Lord,” as the King James Version renders Psalm 27.4, God’s majesty and might prove all encompassing and unsurpassed. He/She truly becomes All in all, the Essence of our lives and world. Before we trip the light fantastic into metaphysical hype, though, we must ask why gazing upon the beauty of the Lord is so important. The answer is fairly basic and utterly practical. When we see God in all His/Her beauty and conclude He/She is All in all, we also see God is All we need.

Expanding Our Vision

David’s image of dwelling forever in God’s house to gaze on His/Her beauty arrests us by seeming out of context. Psalm 27 is about a man repeatedly thrust into ugly situations. Verse 2 describes evil men advancing to devour him, while armies besiege him and war breaks out against him in verse 3. Yet these woes are couched in the defiance proclaimed in his opening: “The LORD is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear? The LORD is the stronghold of my life—of whom shall I be afraid?” Thus, David remains sure the cannibals and aggressors “will stumble and fall;” despite the assaults, “even then will I be confident.” And where does David locate his wellspring of assurance? He finds safety by gazing upon God’s beauty. Envelopment in divine splendor shields him from earthbound harm. He writes in verse 5, “For in the day of trouble he will keep me safe in his dwelling; he will hide me in the shelter of his tabernacle and set me high upon a rock.”

Modern photorealism puts us at a great disadvantage in terms of expanding our vision of God. David and the other ancients find it much easier to shake their literal-mindedness and perceive God as something other than imaginary. Their image is surreal in the strictest sense, meaning “more than real.” They describe God in superhuman terms because His/Her beauty and attributes exceed human bounds. Isaiah 59.1 says, “Surely the arm of the LORD is not too short to save, nor his ear too dull to hear.” We read in Deuteronomy 33.27, “The eternal God is your refuge and underneath are the everlasting arms.” And Psalm 121.3 and 5 says, “He who watches over you will not slumber... The LORD watches over you—the LORD is your shade at your right hand.” These visions emphasize God is too big, timeless, and tireless for human comparison—too enormous for walls, too powerful for words. We need to see that. And once we do, we mustn’t ever forget it.

Whom We’re Dealing With

Learning to gaze upon God’s beauty goes beyond aesthetics. In fact, while we can’t help but be awestruck by it, admiration isn’t the point. The more we train our faculties to perceive God as something Other than us the better we grasp Whom we’re dealing with. Heightened awareness of His/Her boundless beauty increases our faith in His/Her boundlessness. Just as there is no end to God’s beauty, we see there is no end of His/Her power, perfection, and most of all, love. God’s reach exceeds human scale. God’s hearing supersedes mortal capacity. God’s protection is impregnable; His/Her support never weakens. God is impervious to fatigue. He/She overshadows our every moment and move. When we gaze at the infinite beauty of God, we see these and innumerable other attributes that assure our wellbeing and progress.

Psalm 27.4 brings to life the benefits of picturing God’s presence as our hiding place. As ugly and impossible as things get, we are ensconced in inexplicable beauty. Darkness cannot penetrate its light. Armies and aggressors cannot challenge its supremacy. In effect, we’re blinded by beauty. We’re aware of troubles encircling us, but their threats are eclipsed by divine perfection. God is our light and our salvation. Whom shall we fear? Of whom shall we be afraid?

Gazing at God’s infinite, perfect beauty sharpens our awareness of His/Her infinite, perfect power and love. It hides us from ugliness and eclipses fear.

(Next: Our House)

Forward

Remember Lot’s wife! Whoever tries to keep his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life will preserve it. (Luke 17.32-33) 

The Processional of Life

Variations in Christian worship are an endless fascination for me. Were it possible, I could spend the remainder of my life roaming from church to church, satisfying my curiosity about “how we do.” From the bare-bones simplicity of urban storefront services to the outsized splendor of cathedral rites, I’m equally intrigued by their vast differences and understated commonalities. I’ve found the most striking similarity to be the processional, because it exists in some form in nearly every liturgy. At its most elaborate, it initiates worship. A retinue of acolytes, singers, laity, and ministers proceeds down the sanctuary aisle in a symbolic approach to the altar. In services where the Eucharist serves as the centerpiece, the entire congregation makes its way to the table, where it partakes of the Communion elements. But even churches that prefer a less ornate, formalized order of service include a processional in their worship. This typically comes near the end of the experience, when the preacher concludes his/her sermon with an invitation for those in need of prayer to “come to Christ.”

Walking plays an essential role in our worship by replicating the processional of life. We are always moving forward, heading toward something we hope will be better, healthier, and happier for us. The future, bright with promise and untarnished by reality, beckons and its call cannot be refused. Yet the moment we step into the future it becomes the present. “Now” is always a moment of evaluation. It’s seldom what we anticipated; there are always nuances and complexities we didn’t—or couldn’t—foresee. Now we’re faced with new things to learn and adjust to. Our comfort level is sharply reduced. Many times, we recognize what’s behind us is much worse than where we are. But the strangeness of this new place sets off longings for “the good old days,” regardless how bad they really were. And this uncertainty raises speculation about the future. Will the next step be just as challenging as this one? Probably. Consequently, we often enter the present and freeze. But the processional of life has tremendous inertia. It pulls us ahead against our will and pries us free of what we cling to. Thinking we can overpower the forward process of time and existence is a dangerous idea that can completely immobilize us. This is what Jesus means by “Remember Lot’s wife.” (Luke 17.2)

Stopping

We all know the story. Lot, Abraham’s nephew, has settled in the plains of Sodom, just beyond the gates of a corrupt city whose residents enrage God by threatening two angelic visitors. Lot's guests warn that God intends to destroy Sodom and advise him to move his family immediately. (Lot doesn’t realize he’s built his home on unstable soil with large sulfuric, highly flammable deposits.) The day of destruction comes. The ground explodes, sending plumes of blazing minerals into the sky creating a fatal firestorm. As her family runs for safety, Lot’s wife stops to catch one last glance of the city going up in smoke. A white-hot deluge of sulfur pours over her and she’s instantly petrified into a pillar of salt.

The magnitude of God’s wrath and craven behavior of Sodom’s men invite much speculation about what compels Lot’s wife to look back. She’s typically painted as a materialistic woman who can’t bear leaving the riches of Sodom. Since nothing in Genesis suggests she was faithless or shallow, however, I think she gets a bad rap. Her mistake was stopping to evaluate what she was losing, when she should have proceeded post-haste to protect what she had. She exemplifies all of us who get trapped between what was, is, and will be. After mentioning Lot’s wife, Jesus says, “Whoever tries to keep his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life will preserve it.” Staying where we are is what kills us. Minimizing what we know and possess thus far to gain more knowledge and security ahead saves us. In the processional of life, releasing our hold on what we have is how we preserve it. It keeps us moving forward. It keeps us alive.

Keep Walking

In 2 Corinthians 5.7, Paul writes, “For we walk by faith, not by sight.” (KJV) This implies two things. First, we trust God’s direction entirely, even when it conflicts with everything that disputes its wisdom. Second, it indicates we internalize what we experience as intuitive knowledge rather than rely on visibly factual proof. In other words, we don’t need to see it to know it. This is a tough discipline every believer struggles to develop—in part because it completely defies our biological instincts. As a species, we are hunters and gatherers. We collect things and build imaginary trophy rooms where we display our holdings: prized memories of triumph and success, as well as despised scars that symbolize survival. We carry these things with us, picking up more and more as we go. That by itself isn’t a problem. It’s when we stop moving to haul out our baggage and look at what we’re carrying that we get into trouble. Digging through the past is what gets us stuck in the now.

Much of what we carry will remain with us always. Memories of every kind linger at will. But much of our collected past also burns off as we move ahead. Stopping to search for what’s lost, hoping to imprint its image in our minds leads to feeling torn about moving ahead. What if that cherished memory gets away from us and we’ll never find anything like it again? What if that scar totally vanishes and we no longer resemble who we were? But must we repeatedly look at these things to retain them? They are part of us; we know them even though we may no longer “see” them. Pausing to revisit the past puts us at war with the inertia of existence. Life pulls us forward. If, like Lot’s wife, we continue to fight the processional of life, we’ll get left behind. What we desperately wanted to fix in our mind’s eye will be lost, and we’ll be lost, too—stranded out of time, stuck somewhere between then and now while life marches on. Keep walking forward by faith. Remember Lot’s wife!

We carry what we've learned and experienced with us. It's part of us. Stopping to preserve past trophies and scars strands us in the now and jeopardizes our future.

(Next: Beauty)

Such a Little Thing

The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed… Though it is the smallest of all your seeds, yet when it grows, it is the largest of garden plants and becomes a tree. (Matthew 13.31-32)

Start Small

Jesus refers to mustard seeds on two occasions to illustrate two lessons. The more popular is the second, in which he compares the tiny seed to faith: “If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there’ and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.” (Matthew 17.20) Little wonder why this promise is so popular. It’s outrageously exciting and dramatic. A mustard seed measures about the size of a pinhead. If it only takes that much faith to move our mountains, my goodness, nothing can stand in our way! His earlier mention of a mustard seed is quoted less often, which is a pity, since it involves us more directly and results in something far more amazing and permanent than mountain-moving. In this instance, Jesus isn’t talking about altering the landscape. He’s teaching us how to change the world.

In Matthew 13.31, He says, “The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed.” To get the full gist of what follows, we have to pause and consider what “the kingdom of heaven” means. Jesus’s frequently addresses one of two kingdoms, the kingdom of God and the kingdom of heaven. We tend to mistake one for the other, when they’re distinctively unique, with each carrying its own implications. The kingdom of God exists, has always existed, and always will. It’s God’s presence with and in us, as Jesus emphatically states in Luke 17.21: “The kingdom of God is within you.” That’s straightforward. The kingdom of heaven is a bit more complicated. It comes when we make God’s presence known. It’s the impact and influence we have so the world more closely resembles the perfection God originally created. Everything we do to restore peace and harmony brings us one step closer to reestablishing the kingdom of heaven on Earth. Now that’s a grandiose concept that many no doubt find laughably optimistic. For idealists who don’t find the concept so far-fetched, there are still practical issues to be resolved, beginning with where to begin. That’s why Jesus calls our attention to the kingdom of heaven with such a little thing—a mustard seed. To spare us from becoming overwhelmed by the enormity of the task, He tells us to start small.

Nurturing Change

Since the kingdom of heaven is like a tiny seed, it not only makes sense for us to start small—but also for us to recognize our role is nurturing (nor forcing) change. And this is a true test of our perspicacity and pride, because the kinds of change Jesus is talking about here start without a great deal of drama and fanfare. We don’t change the world by announcing we will. We change it by knowing where the seeds of change have been sown, watching them closely to see when they break through the soil, and caring watchfully for their shoots. We fiercely protect them to ensure they’re not mowed down or stomped to death. We guard them against forces of nature and human will. And we do our utmost to keep people around us aware change is growing in their presence. They may not be able to see it. They may not like what the change represents. But they need to know it’s underway—and we’re nurturing it—so that when it comes to fruition they’ll be ready for it. Because here’s the basic truth about a mustard seed: it’s tiny, but it’s also hardy and insistent. It grows deep roots and flourishes in harsh conditions, to the point that, as Jesus points out, “When it grows, it is the largest of garden plants and becomes a tree.” (Matthew 13.32) We are the critical agents behind its growth. We care for the mustard seed—for the kingdom of heaven—in its tender stages so that it will stand tallest among all other endeavors and it will become a tree that remains rooted and grounded for seasons on end.

Change That Lasts

Jesus wraps up this parable with a most intriguing observation. He switches His emphasis from the seed and the tree and us to an entirely different group. He says the seed becomes a tree “so that the birds of the air come and perch in its branches.” (v32) So what happens in the ground and on the ground is largely for the benefit of those above the ground—the birds of the air. And this sounds astutely correct. We’re not merely creating change; we’re planting and nurturing the kingdom of heaven. As such, our motives and actions must be free of personal gain or ambition. We must change the world for everyone’s benefit—not merely our own. As we’ve seen over and over, when we get a bright idea about how to make the world better in our sight, we open a Pandora’s box we can never close. Prohibition is a prime example. The movement to prohibit the production and sale of alcoholic beverages didn’t stop alcohol consumption. Indeed, it created the perfect climate for organized crime and black-marketeering that have morphed into our present culture of gang violence and drug deals. Changing the world requires knowing what must replace what we remove. Prohibition offered no healthy alternative, which is why a poisonous, deeply rooted culture of crime and substance abuse has grown up around its rotted stump.

When we seek change, our focus should shift from what we want stopped to what we want to get started. Do we want equality? Then we must nurture and practice it. Do we want acceptance? Then we must practice and prove its worth. The kingdom of heaven is change that lasts—it’s work we do for the benefit of generations to come. It’s done without selfish intentions, with no promise of personal glory or recognition. It’s slow and demanding and in many cases, it takes longer to reach fruition than any one gardener’s lifetime. But the change isn’t in the doing or the doers. It’s in the seed. The ability to make sure that seed grows is what’s in each of us.

The kingdom of heaven is all about changing the world. Jesus says when we plant that tiny little "kingdom seed" and nurture it, it will grow into something that lasts and benefits others.

(Next: Forward)

Made Whole

They laid the sick in the streets, and besought him that they might touch if it were but the border of his garment: and as many as touched him were made whole. (Mark 6.56; KJV)

Severances

I’ve resisted writing about Haiti because it felt unnecessary. The stories and pictures of the past two weeks leave nothing to be said. They do call to mind a haunting visual that brings Mark 6 to a close, however. The chapter relates a series of disconnected events early in Jesus’s ministry. With His reputation secure abroad, He returns to Nazareth, where friends and neighbors take offense at His teaching, and He leaves because of their lack of faith. Next, He sends the disciples out to minister, telling them not to linger where they’re not wanted; wherever they’re received, they have great success. Word of Jesus’s exploits reaches Herod, who recently beheaded John the Baptist and worries there might be credibility in rumors Jesus is really John returned from the dead. Meanwhile, the crowds keep growing. Jesus feeds 5,000 with a child’s lunch and tells the disciples to sail ahead while He stays behind to pray. Then He walks across the lake to catch up with their boat. When they dock, people recognize Jesus and bring their sick to Him. Mark ends the chapter with this image: “They laid the sick in the streets, and besought him that they might touch if it were but the border of his garment: and as many as touched him were made whole.” (Mark 6.56; KJV)

Were this the last frame of a movie and we scanned back through the footage for clues why six unrelated episodes are linked together, we’d find Mark 6 is really about severances. Jesus severs ties with Nazareth after it rejects Him. He’s plainly shaken by the ordeal, because He takes a hiatus, sending the disciples to preach and heal in His stead. Herod deals with a different sort of severance—one not as clean and final as he presumed. Having decapitated John the Baptist, the preacher’s memory clings, clouding the king’s mind with fear. At the same time, the disciples and crowds cling to Jesus. He breaks away once again, yet finds it impossible to be apart from them very long. Though they’ve proven capable on their own, Jesus walks on water to return to them. Which leads to the closing shot of people severed from society by illness and injury clinging to Christ, grabbing at His clothes to be made whole.

No Minor Catastrophes

The humanity—and lack of it—coursing through these big scenes leaves one overwhelmed, affecting us exactly like the photos and video from Port-au-Prince. The scale is enormous, and yet our eyes repeatedly fix on one or two faces, where the emotional drama plays out in epic proportion. We see Jesus’s consternation as his hometown turns on Him. We peer into grateful eyes as the disciples bring healing to hopeless villagers—and we see dark hostility in faces that refuse them. We watch anxiety dance across Herod’s brow and marvel at the generous glow of a little boy holding a lunch basket. We sense the fatigue in Christ’s features, confirming His need for solitude, soon followed by the joy brimming in His smile while He walks out to the ship. Finally, we recognize the desperation in helpless people lining the streets, waiting for Jesus to pass by.

More than anything, what we see reflected in these faces thrust into various crises is there are no minor catastrophes. Unanticipated life-turns exact enormous tolls on us. Rejection, risk, guilt, exhaustion, and sickness change us irrevocably. They dash our hopes. They create new fears. They stretch us and sometimes leave us stranded, grasping for someone to ease our suffering. In the middle of our crises, we ask why God permits such tremendous hardship. Surely Jesus questioned why He found no honor in Nazareth. Yet it’s hard to imagine the experience didn’t color His compassion for countless sick, marginalized people around Him. Nor could He possibly ignore the love and concern of family and friends who placed their wounded and dying at His feet. Christ’s personal catastrophes forged His bond with others who struggled. Their situations differed, but they suffered all the same. Loss of any kind makes every kind of loss easily and deeply felt.

The Reason We Suffer

There is no end of causes for suffering, from foolish neglect to malignant hatred. Identifying the reason we suffer, however, is another thing. When we search for a reason, we inevitably start at one of two places: God or us. Either He wants us to endure pain, or we’ve done something to deserve it. But neither of these applies to Christ’s struggles in Mark 6. There’s no reason for His oldest friends and neighbors to revile Him. God isn’t pleased by it and Jesus hasn’t provoked it. Furthermore, it couldn’t have come at a worse time. John, His cousin and role model, has been executed on a whim. Herod’s paranoia mounts as the clamor around Jesus rises. Now He discovers He’s not welcome or safe in Nazareth.

The reason Jesus suffers is inextricably linked to His purpose. In Luke’s account, we’re told the Nazarenes take offense at the text Jesus uses to explain His ministry: “The Spirit of the Sovereign LORD is on me, because the LORD has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners.” (Isaiah 61.1) To understand the suffering He describes, Jesus must suffer. What He loses in Nazareth gives Him power to make people who reach for Him whole. So it is with us. We suffer loss to heal loss. We face fear and sorrow so we can detect it in others’ faces. We endure severance to know the severity of its pain. Suffering feels like a curse when it’s truly a gift. Without it, we would never know the joy of being made whole. But most of all, since experience with suffering draws us to others who suffer, without it we’d never learn what joy there is in helping them be made whole.

We suffer so we can know and relate to suffering when we see it. We experience the joy of being made whole to know the joy of helping others be made whole.

(Next: Such a Little Thing)

Dog Days

Jesus answered, “Woman you have great faith! Your request is granted.” (Matthew 15.28)

A Message We Should Hear

Serendipity can be a lovely thing. While working on the Great of Women in Scripture series, at Rev. Anthony Venn-Brown’s urging, I reengaged with our Australian family at freedom2be, a lively discussion forum for GLBT believers. In conversation there I referred to Bishop Yvette Flunder, founder and pastor of San Francisco’s radically inclusive City of Refuge. That triggered a search for video of her, which turned up an amazing—and highly provocative—sermon (see below) about the Phoenician woman, whose story unfolds in Mark 7 and Matthew 15. As I watched Bishop Flunder, a “Eureka!” moment occurred. The Phoenician woman was the perfect closer for the series, because if there were a patron saint for rejected and disenfranchised Christians, she would be it.

We’ve discussed her before, in an October 2009 post, Crumbs. But Bishop Flunder's take challenges us to look at Jesus’s response to her in harshly realistic, perhaps even unflattering light in order to comprehend the dynamic that exists between traditional Christians and marginalized believers today. This will be difficult for some of us. Yet it drives home a message we should hear. And setting the stage is most important, as what happens just prior to the Phoenician woman’s encounter with Christ indubitably contributes to His response.

Clean and Unclean

Her story begins with Jesus coming off another confrontation with Jewish legalists, who condemn His disciples for not practicing traditional hygiene. It seems they don’t wash up before dinner. Clearly, the legalists are splitting hairs here to trap Jesus in a web of controversy. Instead of answering their charges, He counters with another example of how they misuse Scripture to criticize. If someone decided money he’d ordinarily give to his mother and father should go to God’s work, you’d say he disobeyed the commandment to honor his parents, He says. “Thus you nullify the word of God for the sake of your tradition.” (Matthew 15.7) Jesus indicts this mentality by quoting Isaiah 29.13: “These people honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me. They worship me in vain; their teachings are but rules taught by men.” He tells the crowd: “Listen and understand. What goes into a man’s mouth does not make him ‘unclean,’ but what comes out of his mouth, that is what makes him ‘unclean.’” (v10) This offends Jesus’s critics, which exasperates Him. He more or less says to the disciples, “Let’s get away from all this.” They head into pagan country, far from the legalist rabble. No sooner do they arrive than the Phoenician woman shows up and essentially forces Jesus to eat His own words.

Scraping, but Scrappy

It’s not one of Jesus’s finer hours. He’s tired of arguing. His defenses are up. He’s not in a good mood, and He knows it. Taking a break where He’s not widely known among people who aren’t that interested in Him is a smart move. Then the mother of a deeply disturbed daughter hears the famous Healer is in town and rushes to Him. Jesus ignores her, but the woman persists. The disciples urge Him to send her away. Jesus can’t be bothered. “I was sent only to the lost sheep of Israel,” He says. (v24) The woman throws herself in front of Jesus and pleads, “Lord, help me!” She knows she’s scraping—begging for favor and getting on His nerves. She scrapes because she’s scrappy. She’s like a mongrel that won’t stop scratching at the door until his master feeds him.

Jesus is annoyed. He says, “It’s not right to take the children’s bread and toss it their dogs.” (v26) Did Jesus just call a fiercely devoted mother asking Him to help her daughter a dog? Yes. Did He declare her unworthy of His attention? Yes. After comparing Israel to “sheep” and “children,” can we dismiss the racism in the epithet? No. And since He just blasted legalists for taking simplistic traditional stances in ethically fraught situations, can we overlook His reply is “unclean”? No. We can spin His comment every which way: He’s testing the woman’s faith; He’s impersonating hypocrisy for the disciples’ (and our) sake; He’s just tired after a bad day. Yet there’s a nagging aspect to the story we can’t bypass. Jesus is less shocked by His insult than the woman's insistence. Being called a dog—by a visitor, in the presence of her neighbors—is her least concern. She needs Jesus. “Yes, Lord,” she says, “but even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table.” (v27) Now Jesus is stunned, as if a light goes off in His head. She’s no better or worse than anyone else. And why? Her needs are no different than anyone else’s. “Woman you have great faith! Your request is granted,” He says. With this pronouncement, her daughter is cured instantly and we understand. The Phoenician woman is a dog. She’s relentless in her quest to be heard, regardless how she’s seen. Rather than lick her wounds of rejection, she persists. She makes noise and risks her pride, and her dog-like tenacity makes her legitimate.

Sheep are lovely, but mindless. Dogs protect sheep, not the other way around. To fulfill their purpose in the fold, they bark and scratch to alert shepherds their needs are no different than a sheep’s. If the woman had waited to be recognized, she would never have caused a scene that ultimately confirms Christ’s doctrine of inclusion. Untold millions would have been lost as a result. In the spirit of the Phoenician woman, we must embrace our responsibility to the sheep and Shepherd by owning the “dog” tag. We live in dog days. People of faith are being ignored and vilified because they don’t fit the traditional mold. For reasons no one can explain, shepherds have pushed the dogs aside and let sheep run amok. For their sake—and for all the abandoned dogs who need care and feeding—we need to make noise. We’re foolish to hang by in the case the sheep invite us to join them. That’s never going to happen because we intimidate them. They’re blind to dangers we see; that’s why we belong in the fold. And if we have to scrape a few nerves and beg for scraps to get there, we should. We have great faith. Our request will be granted.

The Church needs dogs. They protect the sheep from danger and prove Christ’s doctrine of inclusion.

(Next: Made Whole)

Postscript: Bishop Yvette Flunder

There are few ministers I admire as much as Bishop Yvette Flunder. Her work for Christian inclusion has raised her to the forefront of the Christian and GLBT communities. And her accomplishment in the Word is second to none. On top of these attributes, she’s just a sharp lady with a lot of class! For those of you who might be interested in her sermon on the Phoenician woman, here is Part One. (Links to Parts Two and Three can be found in the "related videos.") If you take the time to listen to her message, you’ll never hear anyone say “Bow Wow Wow” again without smiling quietly to yourself!

Too Much for the Man

Village life in Israel ceased, ceased until I, Deborah, arose, arose a mother in Israel. (Judges 5.7)

Ready to Reach

The story of Deborah takes place during Israel’s transitional epoch between Moses and Joshua’s leadership and Saul’s monarchy. It has yet to formalize a government with a standing army and basically occupies the territory as squatters. A succession of judges oversees internal affairs and organizes counterstrikes against hostile forces. And the Jews are nearly always under attack, because they’re trapped in a cycle of dysfunction. They fight off one enemy, get peace and safety restored, grow lax in their obedience to God’s statutes, and—sure enough—another foe besets them, starting the cycle all over again. These conflicts involve years of maneuvering that drain Israel of forward momentum. Deborah is one of the judges caught in this cycle.

More than gender differentiates Deborah from her predecessors. She’s a prophetess. Yet her uniquely feminine worldview definitely filters her perceptions and how she works. She takes office during the most oppressive period to date in Israel’s history. Rather than seize Israel’s holdings, the Canaanite king has chosen to destroy Jewish life with relentless fear. His general, Sisera, parks 900 chariots on the border as a visible threat of total annihilation if Israel attempts to break the siege. A male prophet would confront his people with their wrongdoing and rally them to repent in hopes of regaining God’s favor. But Deborah realizes guilt would only weaken their morale further—possibly beyond the breaking point. She knows Israel will come to its senses and turn to God. Judges 4.3 says, because Canaan’s king “cruelly oppressed the Israelites for twenty years, they cried to the LORD for help.” Deborah understands God can’t help us until we’re ready to reach for Him.

Conditioned by Fear

She summons Barak, a rising warrior, and tells him God commands he muster 10,000 men from two tribes, Naphtali and Zebulun. He’s to lead them to Mount Tabor while God lures Sisera to the Kishon River, a stream threading through Israel’s mountains. When Barak’s forces descend on Sisera, he’ll be unable to use his chariots effectively. The plan is too easy to seem feasible to Barak. It may be he also detects a strategic flaw. Naphtali isn’t a highly regarded tribe and Zebulun is best known for its penmanship. These aren’t the kinds of soldiers who can defeat a heavily armed opponent. Furthermore, Barak has lived most of his life under Canaanite oppression. He’s conditioned by fear to expect defeat. Trusting God to hand Sisera to him in such a way proves too much for the man.

“I’ll go if you go with me,” Barak says. “If not, I’m not going.” It’s a sad confession. Barak wants Deborah beside him because he doesn’t believe he warrants God’s protection without her. She agrees to accompany him, but cautions, “Because of the way you are going about this, the honor will not be yours, for the LORD will hand Sisera over to a woman.” (Judges 4.9) The battle plays out as predicted. Barak’s troops massacre the Canaanites, but Sisera vanishes into the desert. He shows up, parched and exhausted, at the tent of a tribesman allied with Canaan. Jael, the tribesman’s wife, serves Sisera milk and puts him to bed. Once he’s asleep, she drives a tent peg through his temple. The Canaanite threat is no more.

Village Life

Deborah and Barak gather the nation to render a customary song of jubilation. But their war anthem rings differently than most. It’s distinctively inclusive. They’re quick to share praise with others and express empathy for their foes. It strikes this note from the start: “When the princes in Israel take the lead, when the people willingly offer themselves—praise the LORD!” (Judges 5.2) After reciting Israel’s woes, Deborah casts herself as the restorer of its culture and traditions: “Village life in Israel ceased, ceased until I, Deborah, arose, arose a mother in Israel.” (v7,9) The song pays homage to tribes that rose to the occasion, chides those that didn’t, and concludes with two portraits: a rousing tribute to Sisera’s assassin, Jael, “most blessed of tent-dwelling women” (v24), and then a poignant image of the general’s mother as she watches for his return, wondering why he’s delayed. “She keeps saying to herself, ‘Are they not finding and dividing the spoils; a girl or two for each man, colorful garments as plunder for Sisera?” (v29-30) The image is devastating. Sisera isn’t ever coming home.

Offhand, I can think of only two or three Old Testament sagas more brutal than Deborah’s tale. Yet its violence is couched in surpassing tenderness, a gentle acknowledgement of how quickly simple things God asks us to do can seem like too much. What’s most notable, of course, is the men—Barak and Sisera—end up the fragile figures, while Deborah, Jael, and Sisera’s mother display genuine ferocity of spirit. Despite this, I’m not convinced gender reversal is the theme here. Deborah’s story teaches how detrimental surrendering to fear can be. When we allow by threats of power and violence to intimidate us, we sacrifice our sense of self-worth. We lose confidence in how much God values us. So often His solutions for problems that besiege us appear too easy to be feasible. They involve people we don’t ordinarily rely on and methods we dismiss as too risky. Constant fear has persuaded us we don't warrant his protection.

Acquiescence to fear destroys village life. It disrupts relationships, disturbs peace, and stalls progress. Until we’re ready to reach for God’s help, it won’t come. But once we do, we must also be ready to trust His plan. He’ll position us above our tormentors. When we can’t conceive how He’ll give us victory, he’ll raise up unlikely allies to defend us. While we rejoice, those awaiting news of our ruin will wait in vain. “When the princes in Israel take the lead, when the people willingly offer themselves—praise the LORD!” Deborah sang. That’s the moral of her story. That’s the answer to fear and intimidation. That’s what keeps our villages and lives safe and free.

Deborah was keenly aware of fear’s detrimental effects on daily life. Her story teaches us willingness to trust God’s plan is how we defeat fear.

(Next: Dog Days)