(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on August 14, 2016, Proper 15)
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Histories of Success
Can you remember what your favorite subject was in school? Was it math? Did you appreciate the comfort of black and white calculations? Or was it English? Maybe you were enchanted with the written word and its power over the imagination. I liked both these subjects for just these reasons. But more than them, the subject that captivated me, even after lunch when my eyelids wanted so desperately to drop for just a moment’s rest, was history. Unlike English or math, which both involve their fair share of rules and regulations, history was full of unimaginable stories: love and war, bravery and betrayal. History told the great drama of life. It was raw and honest.
In the last few decades, the history that is taught in our schools has come under scrutiny. You’ve probably heard the popular proverb, “History is written by the victors.” This is just another way of saying that history usually enhances certain stories of triumph while omitting or obscuring stories of shame and failure. I learned this firsthand when I took a course on Native American history in college, where I discovered just how brutal and deceptive our forebears were toward the original inhabitants of this land. And just recently I have learned that two famous stories about the American Revolution—Patrick Henry’s “Liberty or Death” speech and Paul Revere’s Ride—are both glorified retellings that were written down decades after the fact.[1]
What I find most revealing about our tendency to warp history, is not the bias it betrays but rather the desire that fuels our biases. In other words, I’m not so concerned about the lies we tell but why we tell them. We paint history as a success, I think, because that’s what our culture preaches: the myth of success and progress. Our histories immortalize the powerful and the effective, and invite us to enter their ranks.
Triumph into Tragedy
These histories of success and progress are nothing new. It was common practice in the ancient Near East, where the little nation of Israel was born, for the historical records to honor all the king’s triumphs: the battles he won, the gods he appeased, the possessions he acquired, the titles he achieved.
And for a moment, it looks like that’s what we have in today’s scripture. The writer of Hebrews walks us through a highlight reel of ancient Israel, recounting its leaders’ mighty and miraculous achievements. Remember when we crossed the Red Sea and our Egyptian enemies perished, he asks (11:29-31)? Remember when Gideon conquered the Midianites and Samson put the Philistines to shame, when Daniel survived a night in the lion’s den and his friends walked through flames (11:32-34)? Remember when we were “mighty in war” and “put foreign armies to flight” (11:34)?
And so at first glance, we have just a standard history, which is to say, a history of success and progress, a glorified account of all that went well and nothing that went wrong.
But perhaps you’ve noticed that there’s something a bit different with this history. It repeats again and again the word “faith.” “By faith, they did this; by faith, they did that.” What matters, our writer seems to be saying, is not what was done but how it was done. His interest is not in success and progress and power but rather in the unseen faith behind it all.
And that’s the only thing, really, that could explain what comes next. All of the sudden, triumph turns to tragedy. Remember, our writer asks, when we were persecuted by evil kings and defeated by other nations? Remember when our heroes endured torture and imprisonment and death (11:35-38)? No longer does this history accommodate the myth of success and progress and power. And lest we miss this, the writer concludes resolutely that none of these people—neither the triumphant nor the defeated—none attained what was promised. Not one stepped fully into God’s kingdom of justice and peace.
Not the Power of the Hand,
But the Power of the Heart
By our world’s standards, then, every one of the heroes that our writer mentions would be a failure, a loser. And that makes it all the more outrageous when our writer says, “The world was not worthy [of them]” (11:38). What kind of history is this, that puts defeat and disappointment on a pedestal, that lifts up shortcoming and calls it good? Something upside-down is going on here, something mad and irrational—which is to say, something that has the mark of the kingdom of God, a kingdom that is foolishness and weakness to the world, a kingdom of which the world is not worthy.
If we look closely enough, we can catch a glimpse of this kingdom madness—where success and defeat are no longer the measures of worth—in the Olympics.
On the face of things, of course, the Olympics is all about competition and achievement, about bringing home as many medals as you can. This spirit of success and progress is what encourages athletes to dope up, to gain a competitive edge over their opponents any way they can. We vilify these athletes, but the truth is they’re just doing what the world has always been doing. Whether it’s politics or economics, the military or the market, the ends ultimately justify the means.
But if you listen to some of the athletes, you’ll hear something very different from the spirit of success and progress. For these athletes, the Olympics is not about competition or bringing home the gold, however much these things might enrich their experience. The Olympics for them is about not triumph but determination, about not prevailing but persevering. It’s not about the rewards but about the risk, about taking a leap of faith and trusting that the journey is worthwhile. For them, the Olympics is about not the power of the hand, but the unseen power of the heart.
And I think that this spirit of unseen power hints at the faith that our writer praises in his history of shortcoming, where everyone falls short of the promise. It is a delightful coincidence—and perhaps more than just a coincidence—that the writer uses Olympic imagery in describing faith. He says that like the Olympians we are running a race. And what matters most is not our finish but our faith, the unseen power through which we persevere, regardless of success or progress.
An Olympian Team of Faith
In this light, the “great…cloud of witnesses” that our writer extols, is like an Olympian team of faith. They are our teammates, and their example encourages us. And this team includes countless others, like Francis of Assisi and Martin Luther King, Jr., like Sojourner Truth and Fred Craddock. Like the Israelite heroes mentioned before, these too show us that faith is not a finish line but a race. For they too did not obtain the promise; their kingdom-dreams have not yet been realized.
Similarly, we might say that the world was not worthy of them. Because although much of the world pays them lip service, in truth it does not share or even aspire to their faith. It stubbornly holds onto its histories of success and progress and power. Sure, folks may quote Jesus admiringly—“Love your enemy” and “Be a servant to everyone”—but when it comes to putting these in practice, especially on the grand scale of international relations, such ideas are derided as foolish and dangerous. Why? Because they’re not practical. “That’ll never change things,” we’re told. Turning the other cheek may make sense if you’re facing your sibling, but it’s a ludicrous idea if you’re facing an enemy.
But the voice that demands success and progress, that is the voice of the empire, the seductive whisper of power, the echo of men sitting around a table drawing up battle plans.
In contrast to this voice, Christ calls us not to be effective but to be faithful—to run his path, which is the path of selfless love, the path of the cross.
A History of Shortcoming,
And the Promise of “Something Better”
And the grand irony of faith is that the path of the cross is not a dead end. By the cross, Christ, our pioneer (12:2), leads us into what our writer calls “something better” (11:40).
Out of its 18 occurrences in the New Testament, the word “better” occurs 12 times in this letter. It is perhaps the best one-word summary of what our writer wants to say. It is a word filled with unforeseeable promise. No one knows exactly what “better” will look like. Faith, after all, is about “things unseen.” To live as a follower of Christ means to live in a world that does not yet exist, to live in a world of nothings and nobodies and not-quite-yets. Faith takes us to the final frontier, which is to say, the heart, where power is not a matter of prevailing but persevering, not a matter of achieving our own interest but seeking the interests of others—as Christ did on the cross.
Most histories of the world proclaim that greatness has been achieved, or at least that the ingredients are now here for us to put on the finishing touches. Most histories sing the praise of its heroes’ triumph and success. But the history of faith is a history of shortcoming, which by some strange reversal becomes a story of “something better,” a reminder that we trade not in the currency of change and progress, but in dreams and promises that are unseen and incalculable—like the vulnerable embrace of love and the risk of welcoming the stranger and the foolish turning of our cheek.
It is hard to train our vision on a kingdom unseen, difficult to count on what is unaccountable. And I think that’s why our writer today ends by giving his listeners a simple image: Jesus on the cross. Should we ever forget, this is our pioneer, the frontrunner of faith. This is the paradoxical, countercultural, upside-down way of life, by which we trust we are stepping into the better world that God has promised.
Prayer
Christ of the cross,
Our friend and frontrunner—
To the world, and sometimes to us,
Faith looks like failure.
Inspire us by the sacred shortcomings
Of the holy fools of your kingdom,
To run with perseverance
The way of the cross.
Amen.
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[1] Ray Raphael, “Are U.S. History Textbooks Still Full of Lies and Half-Truths?” http://historynewsnetwork.org/article/7219, visited August 10, 2016.
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