Back in Egypt? (1 Sam 8:4-20)

The Contented Fisherman

The rich industrialist from the North was horrified to find the Southern fisherman lying lazily beside his boat, smoking a pipe.

“Why aren’t you out fishing?” said the industrialist.

“Because I have caught enough fish for the day,” said the fisherman.

“Why don’t you catch some more?” asked the industrialist.

“What would I do with [them]?” responded the fisherman.

“You could earn more money,” was the reply. “With that you could have a motor fixed to your boat and go into deeper waters and catch more fish.

“Then you would make enough to buy nylon nets. These would bring you more fish and more money. Soon you would have enough money to own two boats…maybe even a fleet of boats. Then you would be a rich man like me.”

“What would I do then?” the fisherman asked.

“Then you could really enjoy life,” the industrialist said.

“What do you think I am doing right now?”[1]

Progress

This insightful parable by Jesuit priest Anthony de Mello illustrates that, on the one hand, our culture predominantly assumes the superiority of bigger, faster, and more. Progress is good. But the parable also suggests that, on the other hand, our world’s preference for bigger, faster, and more, misses something. It pays attention only to what can be seen. It looks upon the most obvious material reality—in this case, boats, equipment, and most importantly riches. What the gospel of progress does not consider are the things that cannot be seen. Things like God and the heart and true contentment.

Is it a coincidence that, according to the World Happiness Report, in the last 15 years the wealthiest countries in the world have reported the highest rates of anxiety and depression? The people who have “progressed” the furthest, it would seem, are also the unhappiest.[2]

An Ancient Distrust

If you were to visit Egypt today as a tourist, you would likely go to see the pyramids. They would be presented as one of the ancient world’s seven wonders, an enduring emblem of progress. You would be invited to marvel at the sight of what humanity had achieved thousands of years ago.

Yet how differently do the biblical writers look upon the very same phenomenon. For them, the magnificent constructions of Egypt are stained with blood and haunted by the memory of slavery. In fact, in the Bible we discover an ancient distrust of not only progress but also the very structure often credited with progress, namely a “kingdom”—or what we might call a human government or state. The first reference in the Bible to a kingdom is to Babel, which has a decidedly negative connotation to its name. Babel is where humanity first organized itself in rebellion to God. There they intentionally flouted God’s command to spread out and “fill the earth” (Gen 1:28), choosing instead to gather in one place and build a tower that would put them level with God (cf. Gen 11). But Babel does not only symbolize humanity’s organized rebellion against God. It also hints at the very roots of oppression and slavery. Its language of “brick” and “mortar” will next appear in the book of Exodus, where the Egyptian taskmasters ruthlessly impose hard labor on the Israelites and make their lives “bitter” (Ex 1:14). The progress of empire, it would seem, is linked to control and domination. The negative connotation of  Babel extends beyond the forced construction projects and slavery of Egypt to the conquering force of Babylon, the kingdom with which Babel shares the exact same name (in Hebrew, Babylon is simply “Babel”). Babylon, as you may recall, is the kingdom that will destroy the temple in Jerusalem and forcibly relocate many Israelites in what is known as the exile.

All of this to say: the biblical writers look with great suspicion upon empire and its so-called progress. “Progress,” they might be heard saying, “but at what cost?” Indeed, our Disciples ancestor David Lipscomb interprets the name of Babel—which happens to form a Hebrew play-on-words connoting “confusion” and strife—as emblematic for all human government. He writes, “The effort by [humanity] to live without God, and to govern the world, resulted in confusion and strife from the beginning. It brings strife, war and desolation still.”[3]

“You Shall Be His Slaves”

Today’s scripture represents the closest thing we have to a founding document for the nation of Israel. In this regard, we could compare it to the Constitution. Now, the founders of the United States were themselves distrustful of a government too centralized, of power accumulated in the hands of a few. They sought balance by dividing the power and providing means for each branch of government to check and moderate the other branches’ power. I’m not really qualified to offer any further political analysis. What I would like to point out is simply this. Our scripture today, as a sort of founding document, is historically unprecedented and unmatched in its suspicion toward human government. The triumphalism and optimism that normally accompanies such a founding document is completely absent. Instead there is a sense of tragedy. The people have rejected God as king (1 Sam 8:7). Even after hearing Samuel’s grave warning of the consequences of their choice, they double-down on their decision and insist, “No! but we are determined to have a king over us, so that we may also be like other nations, and that our king may govern us and go out before us and fight our battles” (1 Sam 8:19-20).

The particulars of Samuel’s warning only amplify the sense of tragedy in this nation’s founding document. While the people apparently envision national greatness, progress, and security, with a king to govern their resources and lead them in battle, Samuel describes their reality in terms of its unforeseen costs. His warning is a litany of loss. He describes the various measures of government appropriation: the draft, taxes, confiscation of property, imposition of labor. All the while, he repeats a single, haunting refrain: “He will take…he will take…he will take…” (1 Sam 8:11-17). The culmination of Samuel’s warning, the final nail in the coffin, is devastating: “And you shall be his slaves” (1 Sam 8:17). Which is really to say, “You will be back in Egypt. You may think this is progress, with a king to make the nation bigger, faster, more secure. But in fact, you are going backwards.”

When God Is King: 
Slower, Smaller, Less

I suppose we could read today’s scripture and conclude that human government and the progress associated with its institutional impulses is evil. It seems David Lipscomb may have drawn this conclusion, as he goes so far as to claim, “No human government can possibly be maintained and conducted on [the] principles laid down for the government of Christ’s subjects in his kingdom [in Matt 5-7]….A [person],” he continues, “cannot be gentle, forgiving, doing good for evil, turning the other cheek…, praying ‘for them that despitefully use and persecute’ [them], and at the same time [make demands on others and] execute wrath and vengeance on the evil-doer, as the human government is ordained to do, and as it must do to sustain its authority and maintain its existence.”[4] David Lipscomb goes rather far in his conclusions.[5] While I am intrigued by his thinking, I do not intend to go so far myself.

Today’s scripture, however, does give me pause. The biblical writers’ distrust of empire and its so-called progress does give me pause. (As it should, I think. I recently read and was quite moved by the Message’s translation of Romans 12:1-2: “…Don’t become so well-adjusted to your culture that you fit into it without even thinking. Instead, fix your attention on God. You’ll be changed from the inside out….”) As I fix my attention on God, then, here’s what I find myself pondering. If in today’s scripture Israel rejects God as king, then what does it look like when God is king?

 As it happens, Jesus talked a lot about what it looks like when God is king. He called it “the kingdom of God.” He said that it was small like a seed or like yeast (Mk 4:31; Matt 13:33). That is appearance would not be big or spectacular, so that people say, “Look, here it is!” (Luke 17:20-21). He said that the kingdom of God was not about numbers or quantity. That it was like giving up all one’s possessions for just a single pearl (Matt 13:45-46). That it was more concerned about the one sheep missing than the other ninety-nine. He said that the kingdom of God cannot be rushed, that it’s not a matter of calculation or control, that it happens on its own time like a good crop that sprouts and grows, the farmer knows not how (Mk 4:26-29)—and that its catalyst is not willful hands but willing hearts, that is, fertile soil that receives (Mk 4:20).

The images and metaphors that Jesus uses to describe what it looks like when God is king are many and diverse, fertile for our prayer and imagination. What strikes me, in the context of today’s scripture, is their consistency in suggesting that God favors not the way of progress, of “bigger, faster, more,” but its opposite—smaller, slower, less. When God is king, we will marvel not at pyramids but at little seeds. When God is king, we will not hurry to meet deadlines and quotas, but faithfully tend to those seeds and wait to see what grows. When God is king, every individual will be priceless, like a single pearl for which a person sells all his possessions. When God is king, there will be no need for Pharaohs or taskmasters, for militarization and industrialization and commercialization, for bigger, faster, more—because like the fisherman resting contentedly beside his boat, we will rest contentedly in God’s love, wanting no more.

Prayer

Faithful God,
Whose grace is sufficient,
Whose power is made perfect in weakness,
Give pause to our calculating minds,
Our hearts seeking more,
So that we might recognize where there is slavery in our pursuits
…
Grant us the freedom, the peace, the ease
Of trusting in the way of Christ
And living even now in your kingdom.
In Christ, gentle and humble: Amen.

---

[1] Lightly adapted from Anthony de Mello, The Song of the Bird (New York: Image, 1984), 132-133.

[2] Anna Lembke, Dopamine Nation: Finding Balance in an Age of Indulgence (New York: Dutton, 2021), 44-45.

[3] David Lipscomb, Civil Government: Its Origin, Mission, and Destiny, and the Christan’s Relation to It (Nashville; McQuiddy, 1913), 99.

[4] Lipscomb, Civil Government, 58-59.

[5] And he’s not alone. See Christian Messenger 13 (1843): 126, where Barton Stone expresses the following: “Men by the light of truth are beginning to see that Christians have no right to make laws and governments for themselves…We must cease to support any …government on earth by our counsels, co-operation, and choice.”

"The Word of the Lord Was Rare" (1 Sam 3:1-20)

A Rare Roll Cloud 

For a long time, I have wanted to see a roll cloud. If you do not know what a roll cloud is, I am not surprised. It is a rare cloud formation, a horizontal funnel cloud. Unlike its upright cousin, the tornado, the roll cloud rotates peacefully across the horizon.

It hurts me to say this, but several years ago a rare roll cloud rolled right over my head, and I did not know it. On the morning of February 5, 2018, a roll cloud graced the skies of Richmond, Virginia. I only found about it weeks later as pictures circulated on social media.[1]

Why did I miss the roll cloud that morning? I cannot remember with any certainty what I was doing that day. What I am more certain about is how I was feeling and in what kind of spirit I was probably living. As it was a Monday, the start of a new week, I was probably feeling hurried. Rushed. For me, historically, Mondays are about productivity. Progress. At the end of the day, I want to feel like a foundation has been laid for the rest of the week. I want to have gotten ahead if possible. Monday has traditionally been my sermon-writing day, and by the end of the day, I like to have a rough draft completed.

What haunts me about February 5, 2018, is not just that there was a roll cloud right over my head and I didn’t know it; it’s not just that I may have missed the one opportunity in my life to see something I desperately want to see. What haunts me is the idea that I may be the least receptive to the presence of God and God’s gifts at the very moment that I am writing about these things. (Isn’t that ironic?) To be clear, my fear is not that my sermon-writing is untrue or inauthentic. My fear, rather, is about the spirit in which I work, a spirit of productivity that might harden my heart and hinder my ability to be present and attentive to God. (I often wonder if “productivity” is not antithetical to presence.) I am more concerned about producing something according to my plans than I am about paying attention. And so God might just roll right over my head.

Rarely Speaking or Rarely Listening?

Today’s scripture opens with the declaration, “The word of the Lord was rare in those days” (1 Sam 3:1), before it goes on to tell how God’s word is twice ignored in the temple, the very place where we might expect people would be listening for God. It reminds me of a similar irony in the story of Balaam, a famous prophet and seer, who nevertheless cannot see the angel of God standing right in front of him. Three times his donkey stops in its tracks, unwilling to challenge the angel standing in the way, and three times Balaam strikes his donkey in anger. Only after the third time, when Balaam’s donkey comically speaks up, does Balaam finally see God’s angel (Num 22). Today’s scripture follows the same, third-time’s-charm pattern. Twice, God’s priest, Eli, assumes that the boy Samuel is just hearing things. Only after the third time does Eli wise up to the possibility that God may in fact be talking.

All of which leads me to wonder: why was “the word of the Lord…rare in those days” (1 Sam 3:1)? Is it rare because God is rarely speaking? Or because God’s people are rarely listening? Just as Balaam’s donkey makes a fool out of Balaam for his ignorance, I’m inclined to think our scripture today pokes fun at Eli’s ignorance. A priest of God who twice does not consider the possibility that God may in fact be speaking in God’s temple (of all places!). It is understandable that little Samuel would not know any better. The storyteller tells us that “he did not yet know the Lord” (1 Sam 3:7). But Eli is very old (1 Sam 2:22). He’s been a priest for a long time. Why would he, after all his years of experience, not at least consider the possibility that God is speaking in the place designated for God’s presence. It’s almost as if he does not expect God’s word. As if he’s not listening.

“No Regard”

And it’s not just Eli here in the temple who is not expectant, not listening. It seems to be in the water; it seems to be part of the culture. One chapter earlier, we learn that Eli’s sons “look with greedy eye” on the sacrifices that people bring to God (1 Sam 2:29). They eat the meat that is meant for God, and they also take meat that belongs to the sacrificer. The storyteller explains the root of their behavior this way: “They had no regard for the Lord” (1 Sam 2:12). They are not expectant or listening for God because they are too busy pursuing their appetite and personal gain. As priests, they would surely acknowledge the reality of God’s presence, yet the spirit in which they are living makes God redundant. They may be professional priests, but they are practical atheists, living for themselves.

And it appears that this spirit of greed, this spirit of control and carelessness, is pervasive in Israel, nearly universal. The book of Judges, which sets the scene for the story of Samuel, depicts a people spiraling out of control, with leaders who sacrifice their own daughters and wives and tribes who are quick to take up arms against their own brethren. In the very last verse of the book, in its final words, the storyteller utters this subtle condemnation: “All the people did what was right in their own eyes (Judg 21:25). Which is perhaps another way of saying what was said about Eli’s sons, the priests: they had no regard for the Lord. They were not expectant or listening for God, but rather living for themselves in a spirit of control and carelessness.

Maybe this is why “the word of the Lord was rare in those days” (1 Sam 3:1).

The People of Israel and the Nation of Israel

The story of Samuel, “a trustworthy prophet of the Lord” (1 Sam 3:20), with whom God’s word is frequent, not rare, is in fact just the beginning to a larger story: the story of the birth of a nation. True, the people of Israel, the children of Israel, are already on the scene, having begun as a family whom God chose to bless and transform all the world (cf. Gen 12:1-3). But as the prophet Balaam declares in Numbers, the people of Israel are not to be counted as a nation among nations (cf. Num 23:9). They are different than the nations. They are a people led not by a king but by God. But in the book of Samuel, the people of Israel will become a monarchy. The children of Israel will become a nation with a human king and a human government. As we will see over the next few months, the results of becoming a nation are…mixed, to say the least. On the one hand, the nation of Israel will prosper under its early kings and increase in security, size, and wealth. On the other hand, greed and power struggles will tear at the social fabric, as the rich exploit the poor and the leaders of the nation turn against one another repeatedly in civil war.

One of our Disciples ancestors, David Lipscomb, whose theology was profoundly shaped by his experience of the Civil War, was very careful to point out the difference between the people of Israel and the nation of Israel. The people of Israel, he said, had been called to embody the kingdom of God, but in settling for nationhood, they became just another human kingdom, just a nation among nations.

Today’s scripture and its surrounding story serves as an appetizer for what is to come. It shows us the corrupt roots from which the nation of Israel will grow. What dooms the nation of Israel is not necessarily having a leader or being organized as a people. What dooms the nation of Israel is the spirit of greed and disregard that we see at the start of 1 Samuel, a spirit of control and carelessness.

The Kingdom of God

As we embark on the story of the nation of Israel in the next few months, I anticipate that we will have many opportunities to reflect on the spirit in which our own nation is living and how that might on occasion hinder us from hearing God’s word, from recognizing God’s kingdom in our midst. What I survey in this election year is an obsessive spirit of control, which sees before it a battle, not a conversation, enemies, not brothers and sisters; which spawns “[hostilities], strife, …anger, quarrels dissensions, factions…and things like these” (Gal 5:20-21). These last words were drawn straight from Paul’s letter to the Galatians, in which he warns that people living in this spirit “will not inherit the kingdom of God” (Gal 5:21). As though to say, it will roll right over their heads. The word of the Lord will indeed be rare in those days.

Instead of a spirit of control, Paul counsels us to live in God’s spirit of care, a spirit that bears the fruit of “love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control” (Gal 5:22-23). To live in such a spirit is surely to live in the kingdom of God, as Paul implies.

But to put some teeth on this, to give it some real bite, to show what it might actually look like in our world, I suggest: To live in God’s spirit of care, to live in God’s kingdom, is to trust not in the outcome of an election but in the outcome of deeds of love and forgiveness. It is to trust not in the promises of human leaders who fight against one another, but in the promises of a God who comes to reconcile all of us (and all creation) in his peace (cf. Col 1:20). To live in God’s spirit of care is to trust not in one nation counted among many nations, but in a kingdom into which all nations will be gathered (Isa 2:2-4), a kingdom that blesses all the families of the earth.

To live in God’s spirit of care will mean God’s word is not drowned out by fighting words, that it is not rare. It will mean that God’s presence will roll gloriously into our midst, and we will not be too busy, too “productive,” too combative, controlling, to see it.

Prayer

Disarming God,
We see in Christ
That you come not with force
But with presence, companionship, “withness"—
Wean us from our world’s spirit of control
That we might live instead in your spirit of care;
That we might know the nearness of Christ
And live in his kingdom.
In Christ, who does good and saves life: Amen.

 

---

[1] See video and pictures of the roll cloud at the following links: https://weather.com/news/weather/video/a-stunning-roll-cloud-dominates-the-virginia-morning-sky; https://www.jerseyeveningpost.com/uncategorised/2022/04/01/a-rare-and-unusually-beautiful-roll-cloud-was-spotted-in-virginia/; accessed May 31, 2024.

"The Voice of the Lord" (Psalm 29)

Avoiding What Needs to Be Done 

I have one friend who complains about the pile of mail that sits on her kitchen counter, waiting to be opened. Another friend who confesses in a slightly guilty tone about the daunting pile of laundry that he always postpones washing longer than he should. And yet another friend who laments the pile of junk growing in his garage, needing to be taken to the recycling center and the dump. All of which leads me to suspect that, for all of us, there is a pile of something somewhere with our name on it.

I say this somewhat facetiously to get at the serious truth that, from time to time, there is something we know needs to be done and yet we avoid doing it. Maybe it’s not the mail or the laundry. Maybe it’s a difficult conversation. Maybe it’s a major change in our diet. Maybe it’s owning up to a behavior that’s hurting ourselves or others. Whatever it is, it will not leave us alone. It gnaws at the edges of our consciousness. It tugs at our heart. We can put it off, sure, it’s at our own risk. For denying it or delaying it is likely to cause it to come out sideways, whether in a burst of anger or a midnight panic or just a slow withdrawal from life.

Racing out of Control

I have a recurring dream that visits me whenever life gets stormy. In the dream, I’m racing on the road, weaving in and out of traffic, always accelerating. (Lest I give the wrong impression that I’m a speed demon on the road, that this dream is a form of wish fulfillment, let me emphatically reject the idea! Although I suppose one could argue my unconscious is having its say….) I have never wrecked in one of these dreams, yet they are terrifying. I wake up frantic, fearful, my heart racing.

As this dream generally visits me in seasons of anxiety, where much is going on and much is uncertain, I take it to be a reminder of what I need. Which is to slow down. Or in the words of Psalm 46, “Be still.” Or, as those same Hebrew words are occasionally used to refer to the slackening of the hands, they could be translated, “Let go.” Down your tools. Step back from your plans. Indeed, it is often the case that my racing anxiety is the result of too many calculations, too many expectations, not enough listening, not enough trust.

I suppose what I mean to say is that sometimes what needs to be done and yet I avoid doing, is not a particular activity but rather a cessation of activity. I am reminded of what Francis de Sales, a sixteenth-century church leader, once said. “Every one of us needs half an hour of prayer every day, except when we are busy—then we need a full hour.”

Of Chaos and Creation

The storm at the center of today’s scripture has led some scholars to speculate that its origins are Canaanite. The Canaanite god Baal is commonly depicted as a storm god, whose voice is like thunder. But even if Psalm 29 was originally written as a song in praise of Baal, it has clearly been edited and repurposed for the faith of Israelites—not unlike how the winter solstice was adapted and repurposed for the Christian celebration of God’s incarnation in the birth of Christ.

Indeed, the psalm now evokes the scene of creation in Genesis 1. Just as the spirit (or wind) of God swept over the face of the primeval waters at the very start of creation (Gen 1:2), so “the voice of the Lord is over the waters” at the start of our psalm (Ps 29:3). In the ancient Near East, water was symbolic for the murky, undifferentiated chaos from which creation emerges. Imagine a storm at sea. That is the biblical image for chaos, the world from which God draws forth creation. In today’s psalm, God is depicted as “over the waters,” and not just that but “over mighty waters” (Ps 29:3). God is depicted as “enthroned over the flood” (Ps 29:10). The psalmist makes it abundantly clear that chaos does not have the upper hand, even when things get stormy.

But God’s power over chaos is not combat, as it is in Canaanite religion. No, God’s creative power over chaos is the same here as it is in Genesis. It is in the word. Repeatedly the psalmist refers to “the voice of the Lord” as what shapes the elements of chaos—breaking, quaking, shaking, whirling, stripping. In case there’s any doubt that our psalm intends to evoke the scene of creation from Genesis 1, where God’s word draws forth creation from chaos, we might take note of how many times “the voice of the Lord” issues in our psalm. Seven times.

The Trinity as Relationship

Today is Trinity Sunday, which always falls one week after Pentecost, when we celebrate the arrival of the Holy Spirit among the church community. It is an appropriate progression, reminding us what the Holy Spirit is about. The Holy Spirit is not a superpower. It’s not like the radioactive spider whose bite turns Peter Benjamin Parker into Spiderman or the radioactive muck that transforms four sewer turtles into vigilante ninjas. The Holy Spirit is part of the Trinity. And the Trinity, whatever else it is, is relationship. The Trinity shows us that God is never an isolated individual, but always already in relationship. God, Christ, Spirit. Father, Son, Holy Ghost. These figures of our faith represent God in relationship. They depict God in dialogue. Indeed, Christ is the Word made flesh (cf. John 1), which is another way of saying that God is the Call and Christ is the Response. And what else is the Holy Spirit but the Conversation, where Call joins with Response?

The gospel of John insists that the Word was “in the beginning” and that “all things came into being through [the Word]” (John 1:2-3). Which suggests that the Trinity is at the heart of creation. That Christ, the Response to God’s Call, is at the heart of creation. Is this not what we see at the beginning of Genesis and also in today’s psalm? At the heart of creation is “the voice of the Lord” and a response. Call and response. “Let there be…and there was….” “Let the earth bring forth vegetation,” and “the earth”—responding to God’s call—“brought forth vegetation” (Gen 1:11-12).

God’s power over chaos, over the murky, primeval waters, is not combat. It is call and response. Conversation, dialogue, relationship. And thus from the chaos comes creation. From the storm comes something good, very good.

Giving Us Strength, Bringing Us Peace

What creation shows us, I think, is that the Trinity is not a closed circle. All of creation is invited into the relationship that is God. We are invited into the call and response, “Let there be…and there was….” Jesus models this for us. Jesus shows us what it looks like when God’s call meets with human response, when God’s word finds flesh.

The end of today’s psalm indicates that the God whose word calls forth goodness from chaos, gives us strength and peace (Ps 29:11). To respond to God’s call, to be in relationship with God as Jesus was, gives us strength and peace. I think this is true. I have noticed that when I’m avoiding what I know needs to be done, the storm intensifies. But when I respond to the call—whether that’s to have a conversation or make a needed change or just to own up to a hurtful reality—when I respond to the call, there is a sense of calm, even in the storm. Just a few chapters later, the psalmist celebrates this calm in the storm, which he experiences after confessing his sin: “Let all who are faithful offer prayer to you; at a time of distress, the rush of mighty waters shall not reach them” (Ps 32:6). It’s almost as if responding to God’s call draws forth something new and good from among the chaos. Almost as if “the voice of the Lord” really is “over mighty waters” (Ps 29:3).

I don’t mean to focus on what we are avoiding or say that we need to do everything we don’t want to do. I only mean to say this, “Listen closely to your life.” Because I believe God is speaking to us. Perhaps especially on the edges of chaos, where we feel overwhelmed. I can’t say specifically what God is calling you to do. But I see all over scripture, all over the history of our faith, that God’s call empowers people of faith to draw forth goodness from the storm. And I see also that God’s call often begins with a “Be still!” A “Let go!” That God’s call often is not for a particular activity, but for a cessation of activity. And a trust that the chaos, the storm, “the rush of mighty waters,” doesn’t have the final word. “The voice of the Lord” is “over mighty waters” (Ps 29:3). Jesus is in the boat with his followers, to give us strength, to bring us peace...to invite us to join God in drawing forth good from the chaos.

Prayer

Creator, Christ, Spirit,
Whose power is relationship,
Call and response,
Not in a closed circle,
But with all creation—
Help us to be still,
To listen for your voice over mighty waters
…
And never to give up responding,
For in your Trinity, your circle, your family which is our family,
We find strength and peace;
We find goodness drawn from the chaos.
In Christ, crucified and yet risen: Amen.

Book Review: indigo: the color of grief by Jonathan J. Foster

This book throbs with life.

In a nutshell, it is a firsthand account of death and grief and, perhaps most of all, love:

the thing against
which [we are] flattened [in death and grief]
the thing
holding things
together (44-45)

indigo: the color of grief is the best kind of theology, a “lowercase theology” (1), which does not need to shout because it is not defending but exploring. It is not certain but hoping against hope. It is not closed but open.

indigo presents what might be called a theopoetics, the words of which are quite different from the logos of theology, which tries to have the last word. The words of a theopoetics are wounded, vulnerable, exposed. Always exposed. To silence (sometimes there are no words). To revision. To a new word. A theopoetics does not find God as much as it is found by God. Is surprised by God. Writing about the loss of his daughter, Jonathan Foster comments:

it’s weird
absence is nothing
a no-thing
but it’s very much something
a some-thing

it has no form but
it forms me
it has no energy but
it energizes me
i’m full of its emptiness (9)

It would not be an exaggeration to say that indigo was among the easiest and most difficult reads of my life. Easiest because of its honest, plainspoken-but-profound poetry—like Mary Oliver without the botany. Most difficult because nearly every passage employs the fine blade of memory to flay the ordinary of its familiarity and reveal the cross. Music, sunset, soccer. Everything here is intensely incarnated, or particular, and bears within it a certain crucified-but-risen character.

Foster writes about reading a fragment of Elie Wiesel’s Night and having to stop, which could well serve as a description for my own experience of reading indigo:

didn’t reopen the book that day

idk

seemed disrespectful

to move on too quickly

to read further

to possibly forget

what wiesel wanted us to remember (27)

indigo appears to take its title from Foster’s description of a sunset, which comes to serve as a sort of metaphor for the darkness of death, loss, grief. In Foster’s description, indigo is the last color seen “as everything fade[s]” to black (34). By implication, it is also the first color seen when black blushes into life. 

Indigo, then, is the color of life throbbing. And indigo is an inspiring call to life.

Books about grief are often recommended to the grieving, but this is a book I would recommend to anyone. Perhaps especially to those who are not grieving or, for that matter, not feeling much of anything at all. For reading indigo resensitized me to life—to memories long forgotten, to values often neglected, to a hope I too frequently relinquish. Reading it brought me to life.

- - - - - 

Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from the author and/or publisher through the Speakeasy blogging book review network. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255.

"The Groaning of God" (Rom 8:22-27)

Shared Feelings

If you have ever been to a youth sporting event or concert or dance performance or graduation ceremony, I imagine you have observed (if not experienced firsthand) the special connection between a child and their parents and grandparents. When a child has just completed a special achievement, whether that’s a touchdown or a solo or high school education, and they are beaming like the sun, you can often tell who their parents and grandparents are. They are the ones cheering the loudest. They are the ones whistling with pride or shouting their child’s name.

Likewise, if a serious mishap occurs, they are the first responders. I remember a soccer game when I was thirteen or so, when a teammate went down under a rough challenge, and it immediately became clear he was in great pain. Something was wrong. His parents were among the first people to run across the field, maybe even before the ref blew his whistle. It was as though his pain was their pain. His cry was matched by their breathless, worried dash across the pitch. My teammate had broken his collarbone. But in that moment, it seemed like his parents were broken too. His agony was theirs.

Pentecost and Divine Intimacy

Today is Pentecost, the day that commemorates the Holy Spirit filling the first followers of Christ. Jesus had promised his followers that when he departed, they would not be left alone. He would send the Spirit of God to them, a spirit that he named the paraclete, which can be translated as “helper” or “advocate” (John 15:26; 16:7). The most celebrated story of Pentecost is found in Acts 2, in which “suddenly from heaven there [comes] a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it fill[s] the entire house” where the followers of Christ are gathered, and “divided tongues, as of fire, appear among them, and a tongue rest[s] on each of them,” and “all of them [are] filled with the Holy Spirit and [begin] to speak in other languages…about God’s deeds of power” (Acts 2:2-4, 11). Peter, a leader among these first Christ-followers, stands up and explains that this colorful, multilingual display of enthusiasm for God is a fulfillment of Old Testament prophecy that God’s spirit would one day be poured out on all flesh (Acts 2:17). It is, in other words, an opening of the floodgates, a universalization of God’s Spirit. The final words to the prophecy that Peter shares are among the most uplifting in all scripture: “Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved” (Acts 2:21).

Lest the miraculous events of this scene make it seem overly distant, lest our never having seen tongues of fire upon each other’s heads leave us feeling left out, I think it is worth asking what is the meaning of this event. What is the significance of this sign? What’s really going on? A good place to start is with Jesus, who promised the Holy Spirit in the first place. Jesus himself had such an experience, you know? For him, it was not with tongues of fire or a violent wind, but with a dove and a voice from heaven, proclaiming, “You are my beloved son; with you, I am well pleased” (cf. Mark 1:11). For Jesus, to experience the Spirit of God is to know our intimate connection with God, to know that we are in fact God’s beloved child, with whom God is well pleased. This is the good news that Jesus went about proclaiming, when he ate with tax collectors and sinners, when he healed the marginalized and oppressed, when he lifted up children and the lowly, when he touched lepers and talked with Samaritans and gave dignity to women who had been shamed and shunned. His good news begins with a simple but revolutionary message, “You are God’s beloved child, with whom God is well pleased.” So he calls the woman who has been bleeding for twelve years, whom countless doctors have failed, who has become an outcast in society, “Daughter” (Luke 8:48). So he addresses the paralyzed man whose friends bring him to Jesus, “Son.” So he calls Zacchaeus, an outcast by way of his occupation, “a son of Abraham” (Luke 19:9).

In many of these stories in the gospels, the good news of sonship and daughtership is accompanied with a miraculous sign. Paralysis disappears. Bleeding stops. A life of greed and fraud turns into a life of gratitude and generosity. The point, I think, is not just the miracle, but the wonderful news that the miracle reflects. We are beloved children of God, with whom God is well pleased. That is what changes a life. That is what makes a world of difference. That is the seed of a new creation. The change that matters most of all is not a material or physical one, but a spiritual one. It is a change in the story we believe and live by. A change in our orientation toward the world.

Pentecost, then, is not just about the marvel of a bunch of people speaking different languages. It is about the marvel that we are sons and daughters of God. It is about the marvel that God is near to all of us, that God’s Spirit is not a privileged possession but belongs to all who would receive it, who would dare to believe the good news. As Peter proclaims, quoting from prophecy, “Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved” (Acts 2:21).

The Spirit Amid Our Suffering

In his letter to the Romans, Paul describes what it is like to have God’s Spirit dwell within you. His description proceeds in a rather surprising direction. He does not talk about pure, unfiltered joy. He does not talk about a blissful state of perpetual peace. He talks instead about…suffering.

Just before today’s passage begins, he sets the stage for his description: “If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, he who raised Christ from the dead will give life to your mortal bodies also through his Spirit that dwells in you” (Rom 8:11). It is telling that Paul describes God’s Spirit, twice, as what raised Jesus “from the dead.” If Jesus’ example is anything to go by, the promise of the Spirit is not the promise that there will be no darkness or death, but rather that God will be with us in these moments. God will be with us amid disease, disgrace, devastating loss, even death—with the power to raise us to new life.

Paul develops this point with a rich and provocative image, which in summary is this: when we groan, we do not groan alone. God is groaning with us. Paul introduces this image in verses 15 and 16, where he says that when we cry out to God, “Abba! Father!” it is not just us crying out to God; it is the Spirit of God within us crying out too. It is as though we hear an echo of God’s cry in our own. He unfolds this idea further in today’s passage, where he says that “the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words” (Rom 8:26).

Now, there’s one minor brush stroke in Paul’s portrait of the Holy Spirit that makes all the difference in the world, and Paul makes it at the beginning of today’s passage: “We know that the whole creation has been groaning in labor pains until now” (Rom 8:22). This is crucial, because a groan can point in many different directions. A groan can be a sigh of despair. It can be the sound of death throes. But Paul portrays it in a very different way. As the sound of labor pains. This groan is not the sound of despair or death. It is the sound of pain, yes, but much more importantly, new life.

Death Throes or Birth Pains

Why is this important? William James, sometimes known as the “Father of American psychology,” points out that faith deals with what is scientifically unverifiable. He acknowledged, for example, that the question, “Is this a moral universe” is scientifically meaningless and unanswerable because morals are immaterial. They cannot be identified and counted and measured in the same way that atoms and molecules can be. Yet he argued against the religious critics of his day, insisting that in fact this question makes a world of difference—to how a person lives. If they answer “No, the universe is not moral,” then they may well live without regard for themselves or others. But if they answer, “Yes, it is moral,” then they might live as though they and other people matter, as though a person’s conduct matters.

In a similar way, the question, “Is our groaning the sound of death throes or birth pains?” makes all the difference to the way we live. If death throes, then what’s the point? Throw in the towel. Abandon all hope. If birth pains, then live with longing, with hope, with fidelity to the kingdom of God. “Wait,” as Paul says, “with patience” (Rom 8:25).

I think back to our youth on the playing field or in the concert hall, whose parents beam when they beam, and groan when they groan. I think back to the parents who raced across the pitch to be with my teammate. I know that their groaning was filled with fear, but even more than that, with longing, with hope, with the will to do everything they possibly could to ensure the safety of their son.

How much more so our heavenly father and mother?

This Pentecost is a day of joy, and as we share in fellowship over lunch today, I hope we can feel God’s smile mirroring our smiles. I hope we can feel in our bones God’s insistence that we are God’s beloved children with whom God is well pleased. But as we leave one another and return to our world…we will likely find ourselves groaning. Diagnoses of disease. Natural disasters. Wars. Hateful words. What would it mean to hear our groans not as quiet, resigned, solitary sighs of despair, but as an echo of all of creation, as an echo of the Spirit of God? What would it mean to hear these groans not as death throes, but as birth pains?

My hunch is, it would make a world of difference. May it be so.

Prayer

Tender God,
Who looks upon us as a doting father,
As a nurturing mother,
Who calls us beloved children—
We celebrate your intimate presence with us,
Your Spirit within us,
A helper in all things
…
Bless us in our joy,
With gratitude for all your gifts.
Bless us in our groans,
With ears to hear in them
Your own groaning
And the sound of birth pains,
So that we long for
And live for
Your kingdom,
Which is at hand.
In Christ, our brother: Amen.

"Far Above" (Eph 1:15-23)

Popeye and the Myth of Redemptive Violence

Did you know that Popeye—as in, “Popeye the Sailorman”—did not appear in creator E. C. Segar’s comic strip for almost ten years? Olive Oyl was a main character at the start, but it took nearly ten years for Popeye to appear, and even then, he was only a minor character. But the audience loved him, so Segar increasingly gave the people what they wanted. It wasn’t long before Popeye was the main man.

The popularity of Popeye is no coincidence, according to biblical scholar Walter Wink. Popeye renders in simple, dramatic form the central myth of our modern world, the key story that explains life. “In a typical segment,” Wink explains, “Bluto abducts a screaming and kicking Olive Oyl, Popeye’s girlfriend.” In the beginning, then, there is chaos. Conflict. Evil. “When Popeye attempts to rescue her, the massive Bluto beats his diminutive opponent to a pulp, while Olive Oyl helplessly wrings her hands. At the last moment, as our hero oozes to the floor, and Bluto is trying, in effect, to rape Olive Oyl, a can of spinach pops from Popeye’s pocket and spills into his mouth. Transformed by this gracious infusion of power, he easily demolishes the villain and rescues his beloved. The format never varies. Neither party ever gains any insight or learns from these encounters. Violence does not teach Bluto to honor Olive Oyl’s humanity, and repeated pummelings do not teach Popeye to swallow his spinach before the fight.”^[1]

Walter Wink and others have named this kind of story, “the myth of redemptive violence,” and trace it all the way back to the Babylonians and neighboring cultures. In Babylon, this myth was told originally as a creation story, known as the Enuma Elish. The myth is simple. Chaos is the original setting of the world, and it is bad, evil. Only through a violent act can evil be subdued and order established. Indeed, violence is how the world is created. Literally. One set of gods kills another set of gods, and with their dismembered body parts, they fashion hills, rivers…and humans. Murder is in our DNA, according to this myth.

This mythic pattern can be found all over the world. From international politics to the playground, it reigns supreme, far above any other story. Nations understand that violence is necessary to secure their interests from a chaotic world (how many nations are formed, or preserved, through war?), just as children understand that justice sometimes requires knuckles and blood. That this myth forms the basis of a seemingly quaint, popular children’s cartoon is only reflective of how deeply ingrained and unquestioned it is in our social psyche. Indeed, one figure cited from research indicates that by the age of eighteen, a youth will have seen on average 15,000 murders on television. This is the way the world works, we are shown and told, again and again and again. (One hour a week of Sunday School, of hearing a radically different story, of a good creation and the redemptive power of love—one hour a week is hardly going to make a dent on this myth that inundates our world. On this Mother’s Day, however, I’m reminded and grateful that the radically different story of redemptive love does occasionally get told outside church—by mothers who know firsthand the power of unconditional love.)

David Lipscomb’s Critique of Christian Allegiance

The power of the myth of redemptive violence became unmistakably clear to David Lipscomb, a 19th-century minister in the Stone Campbellite tradition from which our own Disciples of Christ movement emerged. David Lipscomb was born in 1831 to parents Granville and Ann Lipscomb, who both hailed originally from down the road in Louisa County. David grew up amid the strife and discontent of late antebellum America, and he would later be profoundly troubled by the ravages of the Civil War. He struggled to reconcile the fighting with his faith. How could followers of Christ, the prince of peace, turn on one another in violence? How could ministers of reconciliation employ weapons of division and death? In his view, it was bad enough that his brothers and sisters in Christ had submitted to violence. But it was even worse to see them fighting against one another. He could only conclude that the primary allegiance of Christians was no longer to Christ and the kingdom of God, but rather to their respective nations, to what he called “the government of man.” The great tragedy of the church, he says, “is that the children of God enter into the kingdoms of this world, imbibe the spirit of those kingdoms, bring that spirit into the church of God, defile the church and drive out the spirit of Christ.”^[2] In other words, the war had betrayed the true hearts of most Christians. They might proclaim the way of Christ, but in truth there was a limit, a point beyond which the way of Christ became irrelevant, impractical—perhaps even “unjust,” insofar as it could not quickly enough resolve the perceived injustices of the world. At this point, only violence would do. Lipscomb thought that Christ-followers had forsaken the gospel of God’s redeeming love and drunk the kool aid of the myth of redemptive violence. 

David Lipscomb is a radical. His conclusions may themselves seem impractical. Even so, I am inspired by his example and plan to share his story with you, not only today, but in the months to come, because one thing he does remarkably well is to keep Christ and the kingdom of God in the center of his view at all times. He sincerely asks, “How do I live as a follower of Christ in a world that does not follow Christ? How do I live as a citizen of God’s kingdom amid the kingdoms of this world?” In this way, Lipscomb stands in good company. The early Christ-followers would frequently refer to themselves as “strangers” and “sojourners” and “resident aliens” to distinguish themselves first and foremost as citizens of God’s kingdom rather than citizens of the land where they lived. One of the dangers of our place and time, as I see it, is that we live amid a clamor of cries demanding our allegiance, issuing a call to arms. They can be as diametrically opposed as right and left, liberal and conservative, reactionary and revolutionary, and yet they all share the same foundation: a belief in the myth of redemptive violence. Ultimately, evil is out there somewhere and must be defeated by us, the good guys—if not by the ballot, then by the bullet. To believe the gospel of God’s redeeming love in a world such as this would indeed make a person stick out like a sore thumb. It would make a person a stranger, a sojourner, a resident alien (if not an alien from another planet altogether).

Ascension Sunday

In today’s scripture, Paul shares his prayer for the church community in Ephesus. In a nutshell, he prays that they would put Christ first. In typical Pauline verbosity, of course, he expresses this with a proliferation of ideas and images, conveying his desire that the Ephesians would gain a fuller understanding of their “hope” in Christ, their “glorious inheritance among the saints,” and the “the immeasurable greatness of [God’s] power” for people who trust in God (Eph 1:18-19). But what else is this hope, this inheritance, and this power of faith, than the kingdom of God, the world where Christ reigns? Indeed, Paul concludes his prayer by imagining the risen Christ “seated…at [God’s] right hand in the heavenly places, far above all rule and authority and power and dominion” (Eph 1:20-21).

In the church calendar, today is “Ascension Sunday,” which always falls on the Sunday before Pentecost. It celebrates the scriptural account in which Jesus ascends to heaven forty days after his resurrection. It is typical on Ascension Sunday to imagine Jesus ascending into heaven and sitting on a throne beside God. That’s basically what Paul imagines in our scripture today. But lest we mistake this scene as communicating, “God’s in heaven, all’s right with the world,” the scripture passages for Ascension Sunday point emphatically beyond skyward worship to earthy, nitty-gritty responsibility. In Luke, just before Jesus ascends, he addresses his followers and entrusts them with spreading the gospel: “Repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in [my] name to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem. You are witness of these things” (Luke 24:47-48). It is, in other words, a holy handoff, a passing of the baton. It is not the end of Jesus’ work, but the beginning. And so in a parallel story in Acts, two angels address the followers of Christ who are gazing up toward heaven after Jesus, saying, “Men of Galilee, why do you stand looking up toward heaven?” (Acts 1:11)—as if to say, what you are standing around for?

It may be helpful to remember that, in antiquity, vertical representations of “up” and “down” conveyed more than literal position. “Up” conveyed transcendence. It conveyed the superiority of a thing. So when Paul plays with these same images and says that God raised Christ not only “from the dead” but also “far above all rule and authority and power and dominion,” he is actually saying that, for us followers of Christ, Christ is the supreme authority. In today’s way of speaking, where we project the spiritual reality of things less into the heavens and more into the interiority of our hearts, we might say that Christ is enthroned in the center of our heart. However we say it, the result is unmistakable. The kingdom of God is not something that gets imposed from above with force. The kingdom of God, rather, becomes a reality through our making Jesus first, through our flesh-and-blood faithfulness, through our being witnesses to a way other than the myth of redemptive violence. To put it lightly, we follow Jesus, not Popeye. To put it a little more seriously, where the world proclaims, “Evil is outside us, and needs to be destroyed,” we believe otherwise. Sin is within, and the remedy is not destruction but love. Or as Jesus charges his followers just before his ascension, “Repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in [my] name to all nations” (Luke 24:47).

Putting Jesus First:

More Than “Lord, Lord”

I remember in Sunday School and youth group occasionally hearing the call or invitation to put Jesus first in my life, or to give all my life—not just part of it—to God. I appreciate the invitation insofar as it is biblical in origin. We see it today in Ephesians, where Jesus is proclaimed to be “far above” all things (Eph 1:21). But I must confess, making Jesus first in my life was a rather vague idea. To make Jesus first in my life usually just meant being as “Christian” as I possibly could be, which could mean going to church, listening to Christian music, reading Christian books, and having Christian conversations. It wasn’t that different from what’s going on when Jesus talks about the people who say, “Lord, lord,” as though knowing and saying Jesus’ name is the same as living in God’s kingdom. But Jesus says it isn’t the same thing (cf. Matt 7:21-29).

One of the reasons I really appreciate the identification of “the myth of redemptive violence,” is that it shows me where the rubber actually meets the road. It gives teeth to the idea of putting Jesus “far above” all other things, the idea of living as a “stranger” or “resident alien” in this world. It points out one crucial difference (and to be sure, there are others) between the kingdoms of this world and the kingdom of God. For Jesus to be enthroned in my heart means for me to trust and live by his good news that it is love that redeems all things, not violence. It means instead of getting even, I’m called to own up to my part and forgive the part of others. It means instead of looking out for my own good, I am called to look out for the common good. It means instead of taking up arms for the right cause, I lay them down for the kingdom of God, where in the name of Christ forgiveness is proclaimed to all nations. By living this way, I become a witness to the kingdom of God.

When Jesus ascended, his work was not done. It was just beginning. In us, “the church, which is his body, the fullness of him who fills all in all” (Eph 1:22-23).

Prayer

Dear Christ,
You entrust us with the task of being witnesses
To your way of forgiveness and transformation:
As strangers in our own land,
May we tell a different story
Than the myth of redemptive violence.
May we sing the good news of your redeeming love
And be witnesses to the power of forgiveness and transformation.
In Christ, who longs to gather us all together,
As a hen gathers her chicks—
Amen.

---

[1] Walter Wink, Walter Wink: Collected Readings (ed. Henry French; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2013), 150-151.

[2] David Lipscomb, On Civil Government: Its Origin, Mission and Destiny and the Christian’s Relation to It (orig. pub. 1866; Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2011), 144.

"The Victory That Conquers the World" (1 John 5:1-6)

School Memories

I remember very few of the specific assignments that I had in primary and secondary school. The only assignments that stand out in my memory are the ones that filled me with excitement and imagination and the ones that filled me with fear.

I remember reading A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle in sixth or seventh grade. I loved it. I still remember the characters, the brooding and brilliant Charles Wallace and his shy sister Meg, who becomes the story’s hero. I remember many of the specific scenes, such as the impromptu midnight snack that Meg and Charles share toward the beginning of the story during a terrible thunderstorm. I remember the lesson that the story taught me, namely that love is different than control. I don’t remember my book report or what grade I received for it.

On the other side of my memory, lies the terror of a ninth-grade English assignment, which was to memorize and recite in front of the class a Shakespearean sonnet. I was consumed with fear from the start. I began learning my lines from the first moment and practiced them day and night, even in the middle of other classes. I would freeze up with dread every time I could not remember a word. As it happens, I recited the sonnet perfectly, not missing a single word. I got a 100. A+. My teacher did make a comment about how my recitation lacked any sort of dramatic feeling, which does not surprise me one bit. I was feeling only one thing when I recited that sonnet. Fear. Interestingly, if you asked me which Shakespearean play we read in ninth grade, I couldn’t tell you. I don’t remember the play at all.

I find these contrasting experiences instructive. On the one hand, there is the motivation of fear. It is very effective. It got me an A+. But I don’t remember the Shakespearean play at all. (And to be quite honest, I don’t really like Shakespeare today! Is that a coincidence?) On the other hand, there is the motivation of curiosity and desire. It is very effective too, but in a very different way. I doubt that I received a 100 on my book report for A Wrinkle in Time. But what I did receive was a lasting impression, a story that has stayed with me since, a lesson that has informed the way I understand the world and live in it.

Teaching by Fear and Teaching by Desire

Journalist and teacher Colman McCarthy makes a helpful distinction between two ways of teaching. One way is to teach by fear. He suggests that grading, testing, and homework are all common forms of this way of teaching. Their motivation is fear: fear of failure, fear of falling behind, fear of how others judge you. In this way of teaching, the main question that concerns people is, “What grade did you get?” Not “What did you learn?” or “How were you changed?”

The other way to teach is by desire. Teaching by desire has less to do with results and final product and more to do with questions and exploration and experience. It has less to do with the grade at the end of the course and more to do with cultivating curiosity at the beginning of the course.

I find this distinction between fear-based teaching and desire-based teaching helpful. Maybe it’s a bit simplistic. I can hear some people saying, “That sounds beautiful in theory, but is it practical to teach only by desire?” I don’t know if it’s practical. I have little training in pedagogy. What I do know is my experience. The lessons that have made an indelible impression on me, that have stayed with me long past the course itself, are not the ones where I got an A+ out of fear. They are the ones in which I was genuinely curious and interested.

Obedience Motivated by Desire

“The love of God is this, that we obey his commandments.” (1 John 5:3). When I first read that line in today’s scripture, I paused in my tracks. It sounded a little off to me. I was a little repulsed to hear language of “commandments” right next to talk of God’s love.  What I heard was, “If you love me, you’ll do what I tell you to do”—which sounds a little coercive, a little manipulative. It sounds like teaching by fear. It conjures in my mind the image of an authoritarian God who is less concerned with the spiritual freedom of love and more concerned that I do everything just the way he wants. What happened, I wondered, to my freedom in Christ (cf. Gal 5)?

I’m grateful that I kept reading, because it quickly became clear to me that John’s language of obedience is not coming from a tyrannical teacher. Rather, it is spoken out of care and concern and is addressed to our need—indeed, our desire. “The love of God is this, that we obey his commandments. And his commandments are not burdensome…”  (1 John 5:3). That is, God’s commandments are not repressive; they are not spiritually constrictive. From this, I conclude that our obedience is not meant to be motivated by fear. Our obedience is not about trying to get it right, trying to get an A+. Rather, our obedience is meant to be motivated by desire for a better life, a desire for freedom from heavy burdens.

I find it telling that Jesus uses similar language, referring to his commandments as an “easy yoke” and promising “rest” from our “burdens”: “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls” (Matt 11:28-29). This is the one place in the gospels where Jesus explicitly invites his disciples to “learn” from him. And in the Greek, “disciples” is more literally translated as “learners.” So, as “learners” of teacher Jesus, this is our lesson. This is what Jesus wants to teach. And it’s simple: “Learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart.”

Learning Jesus’ Gentle and Humble Heart

We are learning Jesus’ gentle and humble heart. Not because an authoritarian God is coercing us by means of fear and threats. But because we desire to lay our burdens down.

So how do we go about learning Jesus’ gentle and humble heart? Our scripture today talks about obeying God’s commandments. I don’t know about you, but when I hear the word “commandments,” my mind immediately goes to “the Ten Commandments” that God gave to Israel. Certainly these commandments are essential to a good way of life. They are a baseline. But will they alone bring rest to the soul? Will they address the host of burdens we carry, whether it’s our expectations and worry, or resentment and grudges, or greed for more?

Throughout the history of our faith, spiritual renewal groups (from the Desert Fathers and Mothers in 4^th-century Egypt to the Anabaptists in 16^th-century Europe to Stone and Campbell in the 19^th century) have emerged to remind us that as followers of Christ we have a unique set of commandments given to us by Jesus. They’re not numbered in simple fashion like the 10 commandments. But if you do want to get a quick rundown of them, many of these spiritual renewal groups would point you to the Sermon on the Mount, which is Matthew 5-7. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus issues a series of invitations (or “commandments”) that distinguish his way from the way of the world, his adventurous, abundant life from the autopilot on which even good and law-abiding citizens live most of their lives.

If you have some free time this week, I would encourage you to read Matthew 5-7 slowly, thinking anew about what it would look like to obey Jesus’ commandments. “If a part of your life causes you to sin, tear it out, cut it off, throw it away” (5:27-30; my paraphrase). “Do not resist an evildoer” (5:39). “Give to everyone who begs from you” (5:42). “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you” (5:44). “No one can serve two masters…you cannot serve God and wealth” (6:24). “Do not worry about your life, what you will eat…what you will wear…but strive for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well” (6:25, 33). “Do not judge, so that you may not be judged” (7:1).

The gentle and humble heart of Jesus—which we are to learn and “obey,” by which we lay our burdens down—is all these things. It is, in summary, a heart of faith. Trust. It is not dominated by the need for results, for a profitable bottom line, for control or success. Rather, it is free from the slavery of results, the hollow quest for control. Thus it can be merciful, non-violent, generous, patient, compassionate to all. It trusts that God is working good in the world through these qualities, even if they do not manifest in the immediate results that are desired (…even if they end up putting you on a cross).

In our scripture today, John refers to this way of Jesus as “the victory that conquers the world.” By now it should be clear that this is not victory in the way our world understands victory. It is not a victory of getting our way. To get our way is usually to fight fire with fire. To get our way is like winning a battle…in a war we have already lost. The victory that conquers the world is a laying down of burdens rather than a taking up of arms. It is, as John says, “faith,” trusting and bearing witness to God’s love regardless of results. It is, to borrow from Paul, “not [being] overcome with evil, but overcom[ing] evil with good” (Rom 12:21).

Prayer

O God, who is love,
We follow you not out of fear
But out of desire:
We see in Jesus Christ
A way, a truth, a life
That we desire to live
…
When the world dullens our heart
And enslaves us to the need for results,
For control,
May we hear the call of Jesus
To lay our burdens down
And learn from his gentle, humble heart.
In Christ, our brother: Amen.