"While I Kept Silence" (Ps 32)

How Do We Secure Forgiveness?

Of David. A Maskil—or “wisdom song.” “Maskil” originates from the Hebrew word for “instruct.”

1             Happy are those whose transgression is forgiven,

                              whose sin is covered.

2             Happy are those to whom the LORD imputes no iniquity,

                              and in whose spirit there is no deceit.

When we read a novel or watch a movie, we may wonder, “Does this story have a happy ending?” Unless we flip to the last page or fast-forward, we don’t know until we reach the end.

But today’s psalm begins at the end—and it is a “happy” ending, literally. “Happy are those whose transgression is forgiven.”

This beginning-at-the-end approach is a clever teaching device. It sparks curiosity and desire. It invites the question, “How did these happy people find forgiveness? What did they have to do to secure it?” Did it require a show of remorse? Or a series of good deeds? Maybe a sacrifice at the Temple?

3             While I kept silence, my body wasted away

                              through my groaning all day long.

4             For day and night your hand was heavy upon me;

                              my strength was dried up as by the heat of summer.

The psalmist expertly builds suspense of our foregoing question—“How do we secure forgiveness?”—by first illustrating the pangs that precede forgiveness. He describes his own experience, which is itself instructive. He does not outsource sin, talking about it as a problem other people have, referring to it in the third-person or in the abstract. He talks about it as his own problem. This psalm is itself a confession. The psalmist is modeling honesty and vulnerability.

He says his real misery began when he kept silent about his sin. He felt his sin in his body. It felt like weakness, like groaning, like a dry heat sapping him of his strength and vitality.

Today, we talk in similar terms about related experiences. How shame can feel like an oppressive heat. How a guilty conscience can weigh us down and weaken our will. How terror can make our mouth go dry.

And if these experiences are far and few between for a person, that does not necessarily mean that he is without sin. Our modern world is filled with distractions, screens everywhere (as near as pocket), buttons we can press to acquire new toys and conveniences, news from every angle to keep us wrapped up in events happening miles away from where we actually are. Denial and self-deception are easier than ever before, with all these distractions promising an escape from what is here, now, in our body.

But while these distractions may numb the pangs of sin and anesthetize a guilty conscience, they ultimately do us a disservice, holding us back from true and lasting relief. Which is where the psalmist goes next…. Finally our suspense will be resolved, and we will hear how forgiveness is received.

5             Then I acknowledged my sin to you,

                              and I did not hide my iniquity;

               I said, “I will confess my transgressions to the LORD,”

                              and you forgave the guilt of my sin.

Receiving forgiveness is astonishingly simple. Its prerequisite is not virtuous deeds that make up for the wrongdoing, or a show of remorse that convinces God you will do better next time, or a special sacrifice that balances the scales. It is honesty.

6             Therefore let all who are faithful

                              offer prayer to you;

               at a time of distress, the rush of mighty waters

                              shall not reach them.

7             You are a hiding place for me;

                              you preserve me from trouble;

                              you surround me with glad cries of deliverance.

Like Psalm 29, which we read last week, our psalm today symbolizes inner chaos through the image of stormy waters. Honesty with God protects us from the storm. God’s forgiveness guards us from the shame and bitterness that can so quickly build up and overwhelm us.

8             I—many commentators suggest that God is the speaker at this point in the psalm—

[I] will instruct you and teach you the way you should go;

                              I will counsel you with my eye upon you.

9             Do not be like a horse or a mule, without understanding,

                              whose temper must be curbed with bit and bridle,

                              else it will not stay near you.

If honesty is the first step toward forgiveness and reconnection with God and others, it is not the last step. Verses 8 and 9 point toward walking on a particular “way.”

The earliest Christian manual we have for the instruction of new Christ-followers—called the “Didache” or “The Teaching of the Twelve Apostles”—begins with these words: “There are two ways, one of life and one of death, and there is a great difference between these two ways.” While the psalmist doesn’t go into any details about the way of life, he makes clear a certain precondition, namely willingness, or what we might call “being teachable.” If there’s one thing we learn from Jesus, it is that God does not force us to do anything. It is up to us to follow God.

10           Many are the torments of the wicked,

                              but steadfast love surrounds those who trust in the LORD.

11            Be glad in the LORD and rejoice, O righteous,

                              and shout for joy, all you upright in heart.

The psalm concludes in a manner that mirrors how it began. “Many are the torments of the wicked.” As we have seen, these torments are not like-for-like punishments doled out by God on high but are rather the symptoms of a disease. Sin is a wound that festers in silence. It breeds shame, bitterness, and isolation. It gives rise to nightmares, endless rivalry, insatiable greed. It feels like a burning that will not cease, a grinding that continually wears away. No amount of achievement or wealth will bring relief.

By contrast, those who have been honest and entrusted themselves to God, they feel the cool embrace of God’s steadfast love. They are relieved, they are shouting for joy, they are happy.

We’re Only as Sick as Our Secrets

Earlier this year, I received what may be the strangest theological inquiry I have ever received. A woman had discovered that I was pastor, and she had a burning question to ask. “Can Satan hear our thoughts?” She unpacked her question a bit further, “Is it better for me to pray silently so that Satan won’t hear what’s in my heart?”

The question caught me off guard. I believe that the spirit of Satan is real, but I do not imagine Satan as an invisible figure loitering around, hoping to overhear our spiritual plans so that he may thwart them. To be more specific, I understand the character of Satan in the Bible to be not a one-for-one representation of a person who wanders our world, but rather a handle for understanding the diseased spirit that separates us from God and one another. Satan is the accusing voice, the voice of doubt, the voice of judgment.

But I didn’t feel that explaining this would help the woman where she was, so instead I replied, “I don’t know if Satan can hear our silent thoughts or prayers. But honestly, it doesn’t make a difference to me. Because my faith is that God definitely hears my thoughts and prayers. And my faith is that the power of God’s love is stronger than anything that Satan can throw in its way. If Satan can hear me, he’s no match for God, who definitely hears me.”

And then I thought of this psalm. And I shared it with the woman, telling her that, actually, keeping silent might be the worst of all options. Rather than being a protective measure against Satan’s wiles, it might play directly into Satan’s hand, giving him all the ammunition he needs to destroy a life. Because Psalm 32 suggests that our sin festers in silence. When we live in denial or self-deception—or equally in constant distraction—our secret sins sour into shame and bitterness. They isolate us and weigh us down.

One of my favorite cozy-mystery novelists, Louise Penny, puts her finger on this very phenomenon when she describes murder. The main protagonist of her stories, Chief Inspector Gamache, does not simply investigate for evidence of the crime. He “gather[s] feelings” and “collect[s] emotions.”[1] “Because,” Louise Penny writes, “murder was deeply human. It wasn’t [just] about what people did. No, it was about how they felt, because that’s where it all started. Some feeling that had once been human and natural had [been kept secret]….had turned sour and corrosive…. Armand Gamache found murderers by following the trail of rancid emotions.”[2]

There’s a slogan from the Twelve-Step Tradition that says, “We’re only as sick as our secrets.” Murder begins with a very deep and hidden secret; it is the culmination of a very advanced disease.

Dropping the Mask

Murder is taking things to the extreme, but we have all buried feelings before and hidden the truth from ourselves and others. Neuropsychologist Dr. Anna Lembke reports that the average adult lies at least once every day. Usually they are little lies, so little we might not even recognize them. We might give an excuse for why we’re late, or we might embellish an experience to make ourselves look a little better. “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” she jokes, “[and] we’ve all got a little smoke coming off our shorts.”[3]

The danger is that these little lies actually work together to make up a mask that we never remove, a constructed false self that hides the real, true self beneath. (The word “hypocrite” that Jesus sometimes used to refer to the dishonest or insincere originally referred to actors or stage players, which is to say, to people who wore masks.) Our psalm today is a reminder that these masks can disconnect us from God and life.

The good news is that these masks can be removed. It is as simple as becoming honest with God.

But…our faith tradition reminds us that becoming honest with God usually takes more than just a silent prayer. We might think we can just keep something between God and ourselves, but we’re probably fooling ourselves. Confession before another human person is an ancient practice of our faith, because our forebears recognized that unless we can let down our mask in front of another person, we’re probably not getting completely honest. One of the desert fathers put it this way: “The more a person conceals his thoughts, the more they multiply and gain strength. But an evil thought, when revealed, is immediately destroyed. If you hide things, they have great power over you, but if you could only speak of them before God, in the presence of another, then they will often wither away, and lose their power.”

I used to think of honesty as something that gets expressed after the fact. After I’ve done the thing I’ve promised not to do. After I’ve slipped up and said something hurtful. After I’ve let my emotions get the better of me. But as I read Psalm 32 and ponder the practice of confession, it becomes clear to me that honesty is more healthily practiced before the fact. That is, by dropping the mask and sharing difficult feelings or experiences before they have time to fester, I am nipping a disease in the bud. Instead of becoming isolated, ashamed, and angry, I reconnect with God, others, and myself.

Sometimes I fear that opening up to another person, even a trusted friend, might entail rejection or at least judgment. “You did what? Said what? Thought what?” But psychological studies have shown that contrary to these fears, showing vulnerability has a tendency to soften the hearts of others and invite them to become more honest and vulnerable themselves. So not only does confession help to heal the wounds that fester in secrecy and silence, but it also strengthens and enlarges the circle of God’s love, making us all a little more authentic, all a little more who God created us to be. “Happy,” indeed, “are those…in whose spirit there is no deceit.”

Prayer

Tender God,
Whose forgiveness is freely offered
To any who would be honest
…
Deliver us from the urge
To cover up or to enhance.
Grant us healing through honesty
And happiness through vulnerability,
That we and others might share
The joy of your steadfast love.
In Christ, who welcomes us just as we are: Amen.

 

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[1] Louise Penny, The Cruelest Month (New York City: St. Martin’s Press, 2008), 100.

[2] Louise Penny, A Fatal Grace (New York City: St. Martin’s, 2007), 164.

[3] Anna Lembke, “The Power of Radical Honesty,” narration for an animated video by After Skool, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tw0sskCqrpI, accessed August 12, 2025. 

"The Voice" (Ps 29)

The Text: A Storm God?

A Psalm of David.

¹              Ascribe to the LORD, O heavenly beings—

Literally, “sons of gods.” This quasi-polytheistic opening line immediately evokes the scene of a heavenly court, not unlike the pictures of Mount Olympus in Greek mythology. It suggests that the psalm we’re reading may have roots in the surrounding Canaanite culture, in which numerous gods populate the heavens. In other words, this ancient Israelite psalm, attributed to King David, may be drawing its style and content a little bit from neighboring cultures, not unlike how Christians appropriated the pagan symbol of the tree for their celebration of Christmas, or how some of our most famous hymns were paired with melodies that originated in popular culture. Perhaps King David was composing a song in the cultural language of the day.

                              ascribe to the LORD glory and strength.

²              Ascribe to the LORD the glory of his name;

                              worship the LORD in holy splendor.

If this psalm does have a Canaanite flavor to it, the psalmist has clearly repurposed it for the Israelite faith. If this psalm imagines a multiplicity of gods, as its opening line suggests, there is no question which god is supreme. It is the LORD, Yahweh. All the heavenly court are singing his praise, declaring his might and power.

3                The voice of the LORD is over the waters;

                              the God of glory thunders,

                              the LORD, over mighty waters.

⁴              The voice of the LORD is powerful;

                              the voice of the LORD is full of majesty.

Sometimes when we have a thunderstorm, we will jokingly imagine that God and the angels are bowling. I remember learning that expression as a child. It made thunderstorms a little less frightening. I could tell, of course, that my parents didn’t literally believe God and the angels were bowling, but just the figure of speech itself domesticated the thunderstorm, transforming it from a wild, untamed force of nature into a bit of divine recreation. In other words, God was up there. God was in control.

While God and the angels are not bowling in this psalm, there is a similar “domestication” going on. The psalm reimagines a thunderstorm as the voice of God. The emphasis is not on the content of God’s voice. Not once in this psalm do we hear what God actually says. The emphasis is on the impression of strength and power and glory of God. God is up there, the psalm assures us. God is in control.

In Canaanite mythology, Ba’al is a storm god, pictured riding in the clouds with a thunderbolt in one hand and lightning in the other, doing battle against the sea, the waters, which represent chaos. Our psalm today envisions a similar sort of “storm god,” but with a twist. God is not riding in the clouds but speaking from above. Amid the chaos of the storm, the mess of the mighty waters, God’s voice booms and asserts his majesty.

5                The voice of the LORD breaks the cedars;

                              the LORD breaks the cedars of Lebanon.

⁶              He makes Lebanon skip like a calf,

                              and Sirion like a young wild ox.

In this scene, the voice of Yahweh produces winds strong enough to down trees, the mighty cedars of Lebanon, and thunder that explodes so mightily that the ground quakes and trembles.

7                The voice of the LORD flashes forth flames of fire—in other words, lightning.

⁸              The voice of the LORD shakes the wilderness;

                              the LORD shakes the wilderness of Kadesh.

9                The voice of the LORD causes the oaks to whirl,

                              and strips the forest bare;

                              and in his temple all say, “Glory!”

The psalm began in the heavenly court, where divine beings sang God’s praise, but now the scene has shifted to earth, and it is humans in God’s temple who are singing God’s praise.

10              The LORD sits enthroned over the flood;

                              the LORD sits enthroned as king forever.

Some biblical scholars suggest that this particular psalm would have been sung at the Feast of Tabernacles, which corresponded with the autumn harvest and may have included as part of its traditions a divine enthronement ceremony. We catch a glimpse of God’s enthronement in these verses. In particular, the psalmist envisions God as enthroned “over the flood,” meaning that God has triumphed over chaos.

¹¹             May the LORD give strength to his people!

                              May the LORD bless his people with peace!

The psalm opened with acknowledgment of God’s strength, and here it closes in similar fashion—but with a special plea. The psalmist turns his praise into a prayer, asking that God’s awe-inspiring power give strength and peace to God’s people.

Wrestling with Psalm 29 

I have to confess, Psalm 29 is not among my favorite psalms. The thunderstorm metaphor disturbs me. I think, for example, of the recent flooding in Texas. Was God enthroned over that flood? Was that God’s voice in the torrential downpour that swept away innocent lives?

I’ve chosen Psalm 29 for our scripture today in order to wrestle with it. The psalms have long represented the original prayer book of both Jewish and Christian followers of God, and I want to explore what it looks like to pray from a text that might disturb us or at least not make immediate sense to us.

To pray from Psalm 29, I decided to use an ancient Christian practice known as lectio divina. In a nutshell, lectio divina is listening for God in scripture. It is a slow, patient reading. Usually a word or a phrase from the scripture takes root in the reader’s heart, calling to mind thoughts and feelings in which the reader senses God’s presence and perhaps hears God’s call.

Hearing Voices

When I tried to pray from Psalm 29 using lectio divina, the phrase “the voice of the Lord” (which is repeated, significantly, seven times) caught my attention. So I sat with it.

I thought of Saul on the road to Damascus, who heard an unidentified voice that turned his life upside down (Acts 9:1-9). A little bit like a whirlwind, like a storm.

I thought of Jesus on the banks of the Jordan, who heard an unidentified “voice…from heaven,” blessing him and declaring God’s love and favor for him, a message that changed the course of his life, prompting him to begin his ministry (Luke 3:21-22). I thought of how immediately afterward, Jesus heard another voice in the wilderness, a voice that accused him, that disputed his identity and challenged him to prove himself, saying, “If you are the son of God…” (Luke 4:3, 9).

I wondered if Jesus’ experience in the wilderness is not a little bit like our own experience in the world. We certainly hear that voice that challenges us and accuses us, the voice that says we are not important enough, not accomplished enough, not strong enough or secure enough, a voice that belittles us and shames us. It’s a voice we hear everywhere. In our advertising, certainly, as it introduces seeds of doubt and insecurity, but also in the words of leaders and teachers who preach a false gospel of independence and self-sufficiency. Most of all, we hear this voice in our own hearts, whispering constantly that we are not enough, we don’t belong as we are, there is something more we must do. This voice leads to chaos, or to what the psalmist might call a “flood,” the mighty waters that overwhelm us and rob us of life.

But if we listen closely, there is another voice. A voice that has power over this flood, over this chaos. A voice of blessing, a voice that tells us we are God’s beloved children and that nothing can change that. We might hear this voice first from a parent or grandparent, a caregiver who makes sacrifices on our behalf and does everything to ensure we are nurtured and kept safe. (I still remember the tune of a lullaby that my mother hummed when I was an infant, in that immemorial time before words meant anything; sometimes I wonder if that lullaby communicated more to me than any words could communicate.) We might hear this voice of blessing and belonging in the beauty and wonder of creation, where the sacred circle of life welcomes all things into its dance, where sunshine and rain fall upon good and wicked alike, where green things poke insistently through concrete and all manner of debris. We certainly hear this voice of blessing and belonging in the good news of Jesus, as when he tenderly calls “Daughter” the woman who has suffered from a hemorrhage for twenty-nine years and has been excluded from society, or when he pronounces blessing and peace upon the shamed woman who sits at his feet, or when he eats with the tax collectors whom the respectable and upstanding abhor and exclude.

And when we really hear this voice of blessing and belonging, when it sinks to the ground of our soul, does it not turn our world upside down, as it did for Paul? What is this voice, that overturns everything we know (like a storm), even as it calms the storm and anchors us in God’s peace?

God’s Word as a Creative Force

When I sit with the phrase “the voice of the LORD,” I also find myself thinking about how God’s speech in scripture is often not represented as the definitive “voice of God” but only as “a voice.” Elijah hears a still, small voice (1 Kgs 19:12). Or as we noted before, Jesus and Paul both hear an unidentified voice that changes the course of their lives.

I wonder if this apparent anonymity isn’t a gesture toward our own experience of God. In other words, we do not have the benefit of an omniscient narrator who pronounces, “And then God said…” Instead we must determine for ourselves the voices we hear and which ones we listen to. And that will make all the difference. That will indeed shape our world. Psalm 29 insists on the truth of creation, that God’s Word (“the voice of the Lord”) has the power to shape and reform all things.

I’m reminded of a story in which a black pastor was asked, “Why do black people stay in church so long?” This particular pastor explained, “Unemployment runs nearly 50 percent here [where I live]. For our youth, the unemployment rate is much higher. That means that, when our people go about during the week, everything they see, everything they hear tells them”—and I would add the commentary that this voice is the voice of Satan—“‘You are a failure. You are nobody. You are nothing because you do not have a good job, you do not have a fine car, you have no money.’ So I must gather them here, once a week, and get their heads straight. I get them together, here, in the church, and through the hymns, the prayers, the preaching say, ‘That is a lie. You are somebody. You are royalty! God has bought you with a price and loves you as his Chosen People.’ It takes me so long to get them straight because the world perverts them so terribly.”^[1]

The Power of God’s Voice

All of this to say, when I pray from Psalm 29, I end up in a very different place from the disturbing thought that storms are literal manifestations of God’s will and power. Christ leads me away from an interpretation that makes God into something of a negligent creator at best (allowing storms to wreak havoc), torturer at worst (causing them to wreak havoc). Instead I begin to see the storm as a metaphor for the chaos that erupts whenever I believe the lie that I am not enough, that I do not belong, the chaos that erupts when I try to do things on my own. And I begin to hear the voice of God, a voice powerful enough to create a new world…and a new heart. I begin to hear the Voice that echoed on the banks of the Jordan, declaring to Jesus and to all of us, “You are my beloved child, with whom I am well pleased.” The Voice that echoed in the words of Jesus himself, as he declared this good news to the people who had the least inkling of it.

Yes, it is true that sometimes God’s voice is experienced as an utter terror, as something that knocks us off our feet and destroys our life’s project, as when it did so to Saul. But it is equally true that the voice itself is not a terror but our salvation, that the real terror is being left alone on the waves of our own desires and insecurities, at the whims of a storm whipped up by Satan’s accusations. As I pray from Psalm 29, I find myself encouraged to listen more closely to the voices I hear every day, knowing that they have the power of life and death, the power to create and the power to destroy. I find myself inspired with the desire to speak God’s language, a language of blessing, as opposed to Satan’s language of accusation.  And I find myself feeling grateful for Jesus Christ, who helps me to hear more clearly “the voice of the Lord.”

Prayer

Creator God,
Whose word takes on flesh
And shows us what love looks like—
Help us to tune out the voice of Satan,
The accusations and grievances and insecurities
That keep us in a whirlwind of chaos,
So that we might hear
The same voice that Jesus heard
On the banks of the Jordan.
In Christ, the Word of God: Amen.

 

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[1] Stanley Hauerwas and William H. Willimon, Resident Aliens: Life in the Christian Colony (25^th anniv. ed.; Nashville: Abingdon, 2014), 154-155.

"Be Examples" (1 Pet 5:1-11)

“Monkey See, Monkey Do”—Or, Monkey Learns Desire

A couple of weeks ago, I went to the beach with my brother’s family. We had a great time. My nephew Matthew tried his hand at building sandcastles. His constructions never lasted long, because his great joy was seeing them demolished by the waves; he built them as close as possible to the water. My nephew Nathan ventured a bit further in the water and became giddy with excitement as Uncle Jonny tried to bodysurf.

My nephew Nathan is an expressive individual and loves an audience, so a family vacation affords him the joy of having a larger stage than usual. He’ll tell jokes. He’ll flaunt some knowledge or skill he’s recently acquired. And on this particular trip, he would occasionally show off a peculiar-looking dance move. He would bend his knees a little, spread his arms and dangle his hands, and then shake or quiver. The whole trip, it was a mystery just what this move was.

But I think I have solved the case. Or at least I have one theory and two possible solutions. The theory, of which I’m nearly certain, is that Nathan was imitating a body movement he’d seen somewhere else. In the last few months, he has watched several soccer tournaments on television and seen several trophy celebrations, not least of which was a trophy celebration of his favorite team, Liverpool. And the traditional choreography of these trophy celebrations involves the whole team bending down and waving their hands, mimicking a volcano beginning to rumble; then the captain puts his hands on the trophy and waits, one, two, three, and then suddenly thrusts the trophy high, as the all the players around him erupt, jumping up and throwing their hands to the sky. Long story short, I think Nathan may have been mimicking this celebrated scene with his own dangly-hands dance move. Alternatively, I’ve considered the possibility that somewhere along the beach or perhaps on TV Nathan had seen the representation of someone surfing, bending their knees, holding out their hands to steady themselves, perhaps shaking a bit as they ride the wave.

Either way, Nathan’s mystery dance move illustrates that fundamental human truth commonly expressed as “monkey see, monkey do.” You can see it everywhere, if you look for it. In the elevator, where studies have shown that a newcomer will more often than not turn their body to face the same direction as others are facing. In infants, who will often mimic the facial expressions of the caregiver who is holding them.  In little children, who want to do what they see their parents doing. In advertising, where celebrities who use a product inspire viewers to want the same product.

Philosopher Rene Girard developed a theory for this “monkey see, monkey do” mechanism, called “mimetic theory.” He said that humans learn to desire by seeing what other people desire. We learn our desires, our values, our way of life, by watching to see what other people desire and value and how other people live.

All of which is to say, we learn first and foremost by example. It seems to be hardwired into us. At its root, education is less about imparting knowledge through words and concepts and more about modeling attitudes and behaviors through actions. Actions speak louder than word.

“Be Their Example, Not Their Legislator”

Today’s scripture begins with Peter addressing the “elders,” by which he means not “older” people but more experienced followers of Christ who bear more influence in their community. He encourages them to “tend the flock of God,” that is, other Christ-followers in their community, but he makes crystal clear what their leadership should look like. Echoing Jesus himself, Peter says, “Do not lord it over those in your charge, but be examples to the flock” (1 Pet 5:3).

Leading by example is not just a good principle that Peter recommends. Maybe he knows about mimetic theory, about “monkey see, monkey do,” but the real reason that he instructs the elders to lead by example is Jesus, who leads in precisely the same way. You may recall that earlier in the letter, Peter encourages those who are suffering by pointing them to Christ, who he says “suffered for you, leaving you an example, so that you should follow in his steps” (1 Pet 2:21). The particular example that Christ left was that of not returning abuse with abuse, not returning persecution with threats, but instead entrusting oneself to God “who judges justly” (1 Pet 2:23).

There is a tale from the Desert Fathers and Mothers, that group of Christ-followers in the fourth century who saw the domestication of Christianity by the Roman Empire and decided to leave society and live in the desert where they might “stay wild,” so to speak. In this anecdote, a man approaches his own elder, Abba Poemen, with a dilemma. The man reports that two brothers—that is, two fellow Christ-followers—have moved into his dwelling space and expressed their desire that he be their leader and their teacher. He seems to feel inadequate and doesn’t know what to do. Abba Poemen instructs him, saying, “[J]ust work first and foremost, and if they want to live like you, they will see to it themselves. … [B]e their example, not their legislator.”^[1]

I cannot think of a better or more succinct expression of the way Jesus lived or the way that we as his followers are called to live. If the way of Jesus, the kingdom of God, is to come on earth, it will come by neither sword nor sermon. It will come only by the living example of Christ.

Thinking of Ourselves Less

To be an example is simple…but it is not easy. Because at the heart of being an example is letting go. It is no coincidence that Peter prefaces his call to “be examples” with the instruction, “Do not lord it over others in your charge” (1 Pet 5:3). To be an example means that we are not telling others what to do or think. We are not in control of others.

Peter unfolds this need to let go by explaining, “All of you must clothe yourselves with humility in your dealings with one another” (1 Pet 5:5). Humility has an unavoidable connotation of lowliness. The Greek word for “humble” (tapeinos) is used elsewhere to describe valleys and rivers as opposed to mountains. It is used to refer to people who are not powerful, not famous, not intelligent, not important.

Our world looks on humility with a suspicious eye, and perhaps with good reason. Some people have misconstrued the lowliness of humility with having a poor sense of self-worth, a diminished self-image. Some people think to be humble means to acknowledge, “I am worthless, a worm, a nobody.” But that is clearly not what humility means in the gospel of Jesus Christ. When Jesus began his ministry, he had just heard as clear as day the voice of God, declaring, “You are my beloved child, with whom I am well pleased,” and that is the same message he proclaims to us. We are not worthless worms.

I have found this modern slogan to be helpful in understanding humility. “Humility does not mean thinking less of yourself. It means thinking of yourself less.” Peter’s next instructions unfold what thinking of yourself less might look like. “Cast all your anxiety on him, because he cares for you”  (1 Pet 5:7). In other words, do not obsess about your worries and how you’re going to fix them all on your own. Rather remember that the Lord is with you and cares about you (cf. Phil 4:4-7); entrust God with your concerns. I have noticed myself that when I can entrust God with my worries, I am liberated to look outside myself, to become a little less self-focused. Perhaps to become a bit more humble.

Peter next exhorts us to be alert for the devil, who is prowling around like a lion. I am reminded of how Jesus himself encountered the devil, how the temptations with which he was faced were prestige (make a spectacle of yourself!), power (have authority over all the nations of the world!), and possessions (turn this stone into the thing you need!)--the three things we commonly seek to make ourselves feel better, to solve our worries or anxieties on our own. In essence, these were temptations to obsess about himself, to forget God’s care and try to do it on his own. But each time, Jesus resists the temptation and redirects his attention to God’s presence and care.

The Confessing Church

To be examples for others means we are called not to change others, but to be changed ourselves.

The theologian John Howard Yoder identified three basic Christian approaches to our modern world. The first he called “the activist church.” Typically associated with liberal politics, activist Christians seek to change the world through the means of the world, through politics and laws and even war if necessary. The second approach he called “the conversionist church.” Typically associated with conservative politics, conversionist Christians seek to change the beliefs of others. They focus on winning souls for the afterlife and accept that worldly politics will rule the day until the day we all arrive in heaven. Even though the activist and conversionist approaches often find themselves at odds, they share a couple common feature. They both endeavor to change other people, and they both participate heartily in the world’s politics, seeing laws and presidents and battles as just the way the world works.

But there is a third approach that Yoder called “the confessing church.” The confessing church differs radically from the activist and the conversionist in that it does not seek to change other people. Rather, it seeks to be changed itself, to model for the world a different way, the way of Christ. While it acknowledges the seeming dominance of worldly politics, of voting and laws and lawsuits and guns, it seeks to live out a different politics, the politics of God’s kingdom, where enemies are loved and persecutors are blessed, where people live simply and share what they have, where compassion rules over merit, where the sick and shamed are healed through embrace and belonging.

The good news that I hear for us today, is that to be examples, we don’t need anything other than Christ and one another. Together in Christ, we can live a different way. We can be a part of the Christly contagion that is the kingdom of God.

Prayer

Loving God,
Who in Christ
Leads us by example—
Deliver us from worries
That turn us inward and isolate us.
Grant us the freedom to be humble,
To think of ourselves a little less
Because we know we are cared for.
And in this freedom,
Inspire us to live like Christ,
Not as legislators
But as examples.
In Christ, who is spreading your kingdom: Amen.

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[1] The Sayings of the Desert Fathers: The Alphabetical Collection (trans. and ed. Benedicta Ward; Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian, 1975), 191.

"Not as Meddlers" (1 Peter 4:12-19)

No One Likes a Know-It-All

I remember a classmate in middle school, Ryan, who spoke and acted with complete self-assurance, as if he knew everything. In every class, he would raise his hand and assert his answer as simple fact. At lunch, he would comment on any topic—from sports to movies to politics—proclaiming his opinion as incontrovertible truth. When someone contested one of his decrees, he would double-down with remarkable intensity, raising his voice until his contender was cowed into submission. Ryan had to be right.

As you might guess, Ryan did not have many friends. I would later learn that his home life was chaotic, to say the least, as his parents fought for his custody in a protracted divorce and showered him with expensive gifts to buy his loyalty. I can appreciate now how this turmoil and vacuum of love engendered a need for certainty and security. But few of us classmates had that enlightened perspective at the time. All we saw was an annoying know-it-all, someone eager to tell us how we were wrong. And as the saying goes…no one likes a know-it-all.

Perhaps you know a know-it-all? If you can call them to mind for a moment, pay attention to your feelings. What do you notice?

Perhaps some resentment. Maybe a little schadenfreude—that bit of pleasure you feel when they are wrong. If you know their wider circumstances, you might some feel pity for them, understanding that their addiction to being right comes from a deep wound.

In any case, it is probably safe to say that you do not feel inspired by their example, motivated by their way of life. If anything, their example probably strikes you as toxic, as reflective of a disease. If it is exhausting just to be around them, imagine how exhausting it must be for them, stuck inside a prison of insecurity and resentment.

“Sharing the Suffering of Christ”—Or, How (Not) to Suffer

In today’s scripture, Peter plainly advises Christ-followers that they can expect to suffer for their faith. “Do not be surprised at the fiery ordeal that is taking place among you…” (1 Pet 4:12). He proceeds to explain that following Christ entails “sharing” the suffering of Christ, a theme that regularly appears in Paul’s letters as well (2 Cor 1:7; Phil 3:10; cf. Rom 8:17; 2 Cor 4:10-11; Col 1:24). Peter means to encourage his audience, to let them know that they are not alone, that Christ suffers alongside them and is leading them (and potentially those around them) into the fullness of life. Their suffering is not needless but meaningful. It is not destructive but redemptive. “Rejoice,” he says, “insofar as you are sharing Christ’s sufferings” (4:13). It is a little bit like growing pains, which are no fun but a necessary part of entering into the fullness of life.

But Peter is also quick to point out that not all suffering is the same. He gives his audience a primer on how to suffer. You may have already caught that little phrase: “Rejoice insofar as you are sharing Christ’s sufferings” (4:13), which suggests that there is also suffering in which we are not sharing in Christ’s sufferings. Peter makes this a little more explicit in his next breath: “But let none of you suffer as a murderer, a thief, a criminal”—so far, so good; I think we can all agree these are actions contrary to the way of Christ. To suffer for harmful deeds such as theft or murder is not the same thing as sharing the suffering of Christ. But then Peter concludes his list: “or even as a mischief-maker,” a word that literally means something like “overseer of another person’s business.” Personally, I think the translation “meddler” gets closest to the sense of the word.

I’m reminded here a little bit of Ryan, my know-it-all classmate from middle school. He was all too happy to oversee the business of others, to tell other people what to do or think. And as a result, he suffered resentment and name-calling and the occasional fight. He suffered mean looks and cold shoulders. His suffering was real, but he was not sharing the suffering of Christ.

I’m reminded also of those flashpoint news stories about Christians who have served in public office or as business owners and have refused to carry out their duties as a result of their Christian convictions. Are they martyrs, suffering for their faith? Or have they made themselves overseers of other people’s business, telling other people what to do or think? Do they suffer for acting like Christ, who ate with tax collectors and sinners? Or do they suffer for acting like tyrants, imposing their beliefs and their will on others?

Why Did Jesus Suffer?

These questions beg the larger question, “Why did Jesus suffer?” What kind of suffering are we expected to share? It’s worth a brief recap:

According to Mark, Jesus first encounters pushback for his words and deeds of grace, such as when he forgives the paralytic, and when he eats with tax collectors and sinners, and when he heals the man with the withered hand on the Sabbath (Mark 2:1-12, 13-17; 3:1-6). According to Luke, Jesus first offends his audience when he declares that God’s salvation is not only for Israelites but also for foreigners (Luke 4:24-30). To summarize from these foundational examples, we might say that Jesus suffered because of the wideness of his mercy.

But to make this point even sharper, even finer, I’d like to point out that Jesus does not suffer for meddling, for making himself an overseer of other people’s business. On the contrary, Jesus steadfastly refuses to impose his way on others. In fact, his refusal to legislate and enforce his will upon others is precisely what distinguishes him from the devil. For it is Satan in the wilderness who tempts him with the possibility of having authority over all the kingdoms of the world, and Jesus refuses (Luke 4:5-7). This temptation pops up again and again throughout Jesus’ life, and he repeatedly refuses. After he’s multiplied the loaves and fishes, the crowd are so enchanted by his apparent power they try to take him by force and make him their king, but Jesus withdraws from them; he will not be the king they want (John 6:15). As Jesus makes his way to the cross, Satan finds voice in Peter’s suggestion that Jesus need not suffer the cross but could be instead a conquering messiah (Mark 8:31-34), and then later Satan’s whisper is implied in the agony Jesus endures in the garden of Gethsemane (Matt 26:36-46). But Jesus refuses the temptation to call down angels, to impose his will on others. As he explains to Pilate, his kingdom is different from the kingdoms of this world (John 18:36).

The ultimate moment of Jesus’ suffering—the cross—was not the resentful response of people who were fed up with a meddler, a know-it-all, an overbearing legalist who had come breathing judgment and condemnation. It was, rather, the frustrated and faithless response of people who could not see how the kingdom of Israel was any closer to being restored. If anything, it seemed further away, as Jesus made friends with all the wrong people—centurions, tax collectors, women of ill repute. How was love going to solve the giant, Rome-shaped problem that occupied their land?

When “Good Men…Do Nothing”

Perhaps you’ve heard the adage, “All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing”? It is attributed to Edmund Burke, a British philosopher of the 18^th century. But I imagine a close cousin of it was echoing in the minds of many Judeans when they heard Jesus counsel things like turning the other cheek and not seeking “an eye for an eye” and blessing those who persecuted you. I imagine that some of those Judeans, as they looked upon the cross, thought something similar. Sure, Jesus had healed many people and inspired many hearts, but all of that was small potatoes when you looked at the bottom line and saw that Judea was still firmly in the red, blood red, still a lowly and persecuted occupied territory of the Roman empire. To many Judeans, Jesus on the cross looked like a good man doing nothing. How was this going to change anything?

In other words, many Judeans wanted a meddler, an overseer of other people’s business—in particular, Rome’s business! Just like us, they had an obsession with outcomes, results. They wanted someone who would take matters into his own hands and make good things happen.

What they wanted…was not so different from what Satan tempted Jesus with in the wilderness. We think of the devil as tempting us with evil, but the truth is that Satan tempts us with “good.” “Think of how much ‘good’ you could do, Jesus, with authority over all the kingdoms of the world!” And again and again through Jesus’ ministry, he is faced with the same temptation. To make himself overseer of other people’s business, to do “good” through more effective means, which is to say, more direct and violent means. If he would just call down an army of angels, if he would just declare war against the Roman oppressors, couldn’t he usher in a more righteous world more quickly and with less suffering of the innocent?

But Jesus knows the trap. To usher in God’s kingdom through Satan’s means would actually be to usher in Satan’s kingdom. So Jesus refuses the temptation.

Jesus doesn’t die on the cross so he and his followers can then pick up the sword and execute justice on the world. Jesus dies on the cross to put an end to death, to the sword, to the sin and lies that fuel the world’s circle of violence. While in the world’s eyes Jesus on the cross may look like a good man doing nothing, in the eyes of his followers Jesus on the cross looks like God in the flesh doing everything, absorbing the full blow of sin to put an end to it.

Taking Up the Cross

We live in a very different world from the world to which Peter writes. We do not suffer in the same ways that his audience could expect to suffer. But if we are faithful, we are just as close as ever to the suffering of Christ. Because the suffering of Christ is, at its root, the suffering of not being in control. When we relinquish overseeing the business of others and trying to impose our will or way upon them, we feel powerless. Who are we without our votes to get our way? Without swords or firearms to protect us or a military to defend us? Without lawsuits to ensure justice and perhaps a little revenge?

I don’t mean to suggest these things are bad or wrong, only that they are not part of the way of Christ—and we should be mindful of how our recourse to them might compromise or distort our faith. “Insofar as you are sharing Christ’s sufferings,” Peter writes…. It is another way of inviting us to take up our cross. Which is another way of inviting us to relinquish control over others.

A Franciscan chaplain who served the indigenous people of the Caribbean and Central America during the Spanish conquest of those territories reports that, once, when he was “kneeling beside a dying chieftain, [he] urged him to become Christian before he died so he could go to heaven. The chieftain asked if there were Christians in heaven. Upon being told yes, he shook his head; he ‘would rather go down to hell so he would not be where the Christians were, such cruel people.’”[1] The world has changed a lot since then. But the fact remains that when Christians have meddled—have exercised oversight of other people’s business—they have misrepresented Christ in many ways and given Christ a bad name.

It may feel like torture leaving other people to their opinions and devices…but then we are not alone in that experience, that feeling. Christ bore it too on the cross, when he inaugurated his kingdom. It is worth remembering that at the heart of our faith is a man on a cross, a good man who was apparently doing nothing in the face of evil. But our faith is that evil did not triumph. On the contrary, evil was defeated. “By his wounds you have been healed,” Peter writes, drawing a stark contrast between what appears to us a mortal wound—the end of things—and what for God is redemptive and healing, the beginning of his kingdom.

Prayer

Faithful God,
Whose love inspired Jesus
To relinquish control over others,
To live as witness not warrior
…
We see so much in our world
That is broken.
As we pray for your kingdom,
May we follow in the way
Of our king,
Who did not oversee the business of others
But made it his business to love them.
In Christ, by whose wounds we are healed: Amen.

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[1] Terence Sweeney, “The Repentance of Bartolomé de las Casas,” https://www.plough.com/en/topics/justice/the-repentance-of-bartolome-de-las-casas, accessed July 15, 2025.

"The Hope That Is in You" (1 Pet 3:8-18)

A Positive Difference 

If I had to summarize Peter’s message in this letter, it would be simple: “Be different as Christ is different.” Peter repeatedly acknowledges a sort of spiritual friction that Christ-followers will feel as they follow Christ in the world. He refers to them repeatedly as “exiles” (1:1; 2:11), that is, people who belong to another kingdom (or another “nation,” we might say today). He frequently makes reference to the “suffering” they might expect. (Peter’s use of the word “suffer” in this single letter accounts for nearly one-third of the word’s use in the New Testament.^[1]) The particular suffering Peter imagines is not necessarily extreme forms of persecution, like imprisonment or death, but rather social forms of discrimination and ostracism. More than once, he gives advice for how to respond when society “maligns”—or “speaks badly of”—Christ-followers (Pet 2:12; 3:16). The reason for these insults is, in a word, difference or strangeness. Christ-followers are weird. Their rich and poor share goods and call each other “brother” and “sister.” They refuse to sacrifice to the emperor in order to enter the marketplace. They abstain from going to the coliseum. They make pledges not to kill others and decline to serve in the Roman army.

A prominent Roman philosopher and critic of Christianity in the second century, Celsus, saw this difference of Christians as evidence of a sort of contrarian character. He once wrote, “If all [people] wanted to be Christian, the Christians would no longer want them.” He thought they defined themselves by their opposition to the world and could not exist if there were not a world to condemn and oppose.

This critique may strike a nerve with us, if we’re honest. Many of the cultural identities that we wear today are constructed in a negative fashion, meaning they are defined by who they are against rather than what they are for. It’s perhaps easiest to see this in our partisan politics, which is fueled by outrage at what “they” (the other side) have done or said. But we may also see it in some modern expressions of Christianity as well, such as in the culture wars, where battle lines are quickly drawn and a holy war is waged against certain values and practices.

What I find fascinating in 1 Peter—and what is evident in the first verse that we read—is that Peter rarely defines our faith in a negative fashion over against other people:

8    Finally, all of you, have unity of spirit, sympathy, love for one another, a tender heart, and a humble mind.

Here, we read an invitation toward behavior defined in a positive manner. Peter encourages Christlike behavior: mutual care, tenderness, and humility.

When Peter does offer his audience negative examples—how not to behave—it is noteworthy that he does this not by identifying enemies or opponents but by recalling his audience’s past behavior. “Do not be conformed to the desires that you formerly had…” (1:14; cf. 1:18). In other words, Peter does not say, “Do not be as your wicked neighbors are!” but rather “Do not be as you were!”^[2]

“Repay with a Blessing”: Teaching Others a Lesson

Next in our scripture, Peter unfolds what is perhaps the most distinctive trait of Christ—and the strangest, weirdest characteristic of his followers:

9 Do not repay evil for evil or abuse for abuse; but, on the contrary, repay with a blessing. It is for this that you were called—that you might inherit a blessing.

Non-retaliation is weird enough. But Christ and his followers go beyond that. They respond to evil and abuse “with a blessing.”

Just to drive home how strange this is, how seemingly weak and foolish it is, we only have to think of our natural instincts, or what Peter earlier calls “the futile ways [we] inherited” (1:18). Sometimes when I am with my nephews and they push the boundaries, my first instinct is, “I need to teach them a lesson.” My hunch is that this is the way most of us are tempted to respond in moments of conflict. Maybe we forgo the baser urge to “get even” or to render some form of “payback,” but at the very least it seems only wise to teach the other person a lesson, to ensure consequences that will perhaps act as a deterrent in the future.

Deterrence is the wisdom of our world. And perhaps it is effective in some forms, even helpful. But the wisdom of God is different. The wisdom of God is redemption. The lesson that God teaches is irrational, a complete surprise. On the cross, Christ repays with a blessing. With non-retaliation. With forgiveness.

Consider it a bit of spiritual homework. The next time you find yourself thinking to yourself, “Well, I’ll teach them a lesson”—whoever “them” is, whatever “they’ve” done—ponder how you might “repay with a blessing.” Maybe instead of trying to get the last word, you show care for a need or concern of your adversary. Perhaps instead of nursing a resentment, you consider the wound that precipitated the wrong that was done you, and you pray with compassion for whoever offended you. It’s counterintuitive, for sure, what the world might call “weak” or “foolish,” but according to the gospel it is the one lesson worth teaching, the one lesson that can transform and redeem the heart. It is what Christ did for us, and what we are called to do for others.

Just to be clear, to talk about “repaying with a blessing” is not to say that Jesus turns a blind eye toward injustice. Clearly he does not, as he frequently calls out the religious leaders for their hypocrisy and greed and theft. But what makes him weird, strange, different, is that he does all of this not with an eye toward revolution, toward seizing power and changing things; rather he does all of this with an open, noncoercive invitation to let go of that old behavior and join him in the kingdom. Like the father in the story of the prodigal son, who rushes out to the older, self-righteous son, pleading with him to join the celebration, to enter into his father’s love—so Jesus speaks imploringly to the religious leaders, like Nicodemus, like Simon the Pharisee. Jesus’ blessing is equally available for them, if they would receive it.

10 For

               “Those who desire life

                              and desire to see good days,

               let them keep their tongues from evil

                              and their lips from speaking deceit;

11            let them turn away from evil and do good;

                              let them seek peace and pursue it.

12           For the eyes of the Lord are on the righteous,

                              and his ears are open to their prayer.

               But the face of the Lord is against those who do evil.”

Here Peter quotes from Psalm 34, which he quotes elsewhere too in his letter. In fact, it appears that Psalm 34 was a favorite among early Christians, as it appears frequently in other ancient Christian letters as well (e.g., Heb 12:14; 1 Clem 22:2-8). It is worth noting that, like Peter, this portion of Psalm 34 does not simply advise a negative difference—i.e., do not be like them. It invites a particular sort of behavior, a positive orientation: “Turn away from evil and do good; seek peace and pursue it.” Recited in the context of the life of Jesus Christ, these words point toward a radical commitment to peace. Pursue peace as Christ did, who uttered forgiveness on the cross (Luke 23:34), who did not breathe threats of vengeance and resentment after his resurrection but rather repeatedly proclaimed “Peace be with you” (John 20:19, 21).

“To Anyone Who Asks You…”

13   Now who will harm you if you are eager to do what is good? 14 But even if you do suffer for doing what is right, you are blessed. Do not fear what they fear, and do not be intimidated, 15 but in your hearts sanctify Christ as Lord. Always be ready to make your defense to anyone who demands from you an accounting for the hope that is in you—more literally, “to anyone who asks you for a reason for the hope that is in you”; 16 yet do it with gentleness and reverence.

Church historian Alan Kreider observed that the early communities of Christ-followers did not talk about “evangelism.” They did not put an emphasis on “mission.” Even so, they slowly, organically grew in number. How? I think it could be boiled down to Peter’s essential message: “Be different as Christ is different.” Early Christ-followers stood out in their world for their difference, their strangeness, their weirdness. Alan Kreider says they were “question-posing” people, so much so that others around them asked, “What’s going on with those folks?”

This picture matches up with what we read in our scripture. For Peter, people come to Christ not because they’ve heard a great sermon or gone to an emotionally inspiring worship service. People come to Christ because they see Christ in their neighbor, who steadily, day-after-day, lives differently from most people. And so they eventually ask questions. “Why do you live this way?” Or as Peter implies in today’s scripture, they ask, “What is the reason for your hope?”

Jesus said that the kingdom comes not with grandeur and spectacle, such that people are looking and pointing and saying, “Here it is! Look at that!” Rather it comes, he says, in small, unobservable ways that speak to the heart (Luke 17:20-21). I think Peter is getting at a similar point, saying that it is the little, day-to-day things we do that resemble Christ and make us look different. Just as we might notice the quirks and eccentricities of a friend or neighbor over a period of time, so people might notice the same thing about Christ in us.

A poem by A. E. Stallings represents this truth in a beautiful way, noticing that the little habits we cultivate are in fact seeds of the future:

Grudges, infants, fears, small things we nurse.

The future is a dream that will come true.

But that could be a blessing, not a curse.^[3]

“In Order to Bring You to God”

Keep your conscience clear, so that, when you are maligned, those who abuse you for your good conduct in Christ may be put to shame. 17 For it is better to suffer for doing good, if suffering should be God’s will, than to suffer for doing evil. 18 For Christ also suffered for sins once for all, the righteous for the unrighteous, in order to bring you to God. He was put to death in the flesh, but made alive in the spirit….

Christ suffered, Peter says, “in order to bring [us] to God.” The reason for Christ’s hope—what inspired him to turn the other cheek, to pour out forgiveness instead of wrath, to proclaim peace in the wake of his great pain—was that we might be brought to God. The reason for his hope was that he might teach us a lesson—a lesson we would never learn from the world. The lesson that we are God’s beloved children, with whom God is well pleased.

If I could rewrite the stanza I shared with you a moment ago, I would add one word.

Grudges, infants, fears—and hope—small things we nurse.

The future is a dream that will come true.

But that could be a blessing, not a curse.

Prayer

Lord Christ,
Who repays with a blessing,
Who teaches a baffling—
And life-saving—lesson
…
Help us to nurse
Not fears or grievances,
But hope that others
Might know their blessedness
And enjoy the fullness of your love.
May we always be ready
To teach the world your lesson:
Amen.

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[1] Twelve out of 42 uses of the verb pascho, “suffer,” occur in 1 Peter.

[2] Miroslav Volf, “Soft Difference: Theological Reflections on the Relation Between Church and Culture in 1 Peter” Ex Auditu 10 (1994): 21.

[3] A. E. Stallings, “It Could Be Worse.”

"The Pattern" (1 Pet 2:11-25)

“My Kingdom Is Not from This World…”

11   Beloved, I urge you as aliens and exiles to abstain from the desires of the flesh that wage war against the soul.

I don’t know about you, but when I hear this kind of language—“the desires of the flesh”—I almost immediately think, “Oh, we’re talking about sex here, aren’t we?” But not so. While sexual conduct is a concern for Jesus and his early followers, they were not fixated on it to the exclusion of other concerns. The irony, of course, is that our modern Christian fixation on sexual sin has not cultivated anything resembling a culture of fidelity and virtue, but on the contrary a culture of shame, secrecy, and scandal. It seems we may have missed the point.

The point for Peter in today’s scripture…is that we abstain from the fighting of the world. Notice how Peter opens his instruction here by identifying his fellow Christ-followers as “aliens and exiles”—that is, as people who do not belong to this world but to another world. When I start thinking along those terms, I recall the words of Jesus to Pilate, “My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over” (John 18:36). Jesus clearly communicates here that his followers belong to a different world and live a different way. And I recall what happened shortly before Jesus spoke these words, how in the garden Peter—the person who is writing our letter—drew his sword and struck the ear of an opponent (John 18:10). I recall how Jesus reprimanded him, saying, “Put your sword back into its place; for all who take the sword will perish by the sword” (Matt 26:52). One of the early church leaders, Tertullian, turned this into a core teaching: “When Christ disarmed Peter, he disarmed all of us.”[1]

And so I wonder if, when Peter urges his fellow Christ-followers to “abstain from the desires of the flesh that wage war against the soul,” he is remembering this lesson he learned from Jesus. The desires of the flesh that wages war against the soul are the desires for vengeance and control, payback and prestige. For Peter and for us followers of Christ, the real fight is—as Paul put it—not against other people, not against “flesh and blood,” but against the powers and principalities that wage war within, inflaming us to resent and accuse and fight back.

Let’s see if this aligns with what Peter says next…

12 Conduct yourselves honorably among the Gentiles—which is to say, the nations, the citizens of this world’s kingdoms (as opposed to God’s kingdom)—so that, though they malign you as evildoers, they may see your honorable deeds—more literally “good deeds” or “works”—and glorify God when he comes to judge.

Much of the Roman empire “maligned” the early communities of Christ-followers for their difference—for their refusal to sacrifice to the emperor at the marketplace, for their refusal to attend civic events to which they objected (like the games at the coliseum), for their refusal to observe the basic distinctions of class and honor that separated rich and poor, and master and slave. Peter here is urging his audience not to respond in kind, not to vilify society, not to fight back—not to cave in to the desires of the flesh and take up the sword, as he once did. Rather, he says, persist in doing good that society might also one day give glory to God and live a better way. God’s mission is not to contain evil…but to transform it.

“For the Lord’s Sake”

13   For the Lord’s sake accept the authority of every human institution—the more literal translation, which I prefer, is “every human creature”—whether of the emperor as supreme, 14 or of governors, as sent by him to punish those who do wrong and to praise those who do right. 15 For it is God’s will that by doing right—literally, “doing good”—you should silence the ignorance of the foolish. 16 As servants of God, live as free people, yet do not use your freedom as a pretext for evil. 17 Honor everyone. Love the family of believers. Fear God. Honor the emperor.

If a Roman governor had caught wind of Peter’s letter being circulated among the churches in modern-day Turkey, would he have been worried about subversive Christian teaching spreading amid his subjects? Probably not. A superficial reading reveals nothing to fret over. Peter invites his audience to “accept the authority” of every human creature, specifying the emperor and governors. He concludes by telling his audience to “honor the emperor.”

But if we move deeper than a superficial reading, we begin to detect hints of a worldview that is ultimately incompatible with the Roman empire. We begin to detect hints of what made Jesus a dangerous rabbi in the Roman empire’s eyes and what eventually put him on a cross.

To begin, before Peter advises accepting the authority of the emperor and governors, he advises accepting the authority of “every human creature.” And the reason for this, his rationale, is of supreme importance. It is not a survival strategy. It is not because every human creature is stronger or superior. It is, Peter says, “for the Lord’s sake” (1 Pet 2:13). In other words, accepting the authority of others does not signify becoming a doormat and letting others do whatever they want. Rather it signifies the voluntary positioning of oneself as a servant for God’s sake, the deliberate choice to seek the good of the other person, just as Jesus said, “You know that among the Gentiles [the nations] those whom they recognize as their rulers lord it over them, and their great ones are tyrants over them. But it is not so among you; but whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant” (Mark 10:42-43). The point for Jesus is that while the world seeks to have power over others, in God’s kingdom we seek a cross-shaped power, a power “under” others, a love that does not overpower but empowers. Jesus does not mean that we must choose to suffer abuse. He himself stood in the way of such abuse, as when the crowd had gathered to stone the disgraced woman. The point for Jesus is not needless suffering but deliberately serving and seeking the good of the other.

It is well worth noting that Peter never acknowledges the legitimacy of worldly leadership, whether the emperor or his governors. Theologically speaking, his worldview could align with Jesus’, for Jesus seems to accept the devil’s proclamation that this world’s kingdoms belong to the devil (cf. Luke 4:5-7). When Peter says, “Honor the emperor,” it is possible he is referring to the emperor Nero, who was responsible for the violent persecution of Christians. (Nero blamed Christians for a great fire that swept through Rome in 64 CE). Peter is not advising honor on the basis of the emperor’s office or his just exercise of power but on the basis of his humanity. Notice what he says right before: “Honor everyone” (1 Pet 2:17). Peter is not blessing the Roman empire or the status quo, he is exploding it. The same honor you give the emperor, he says, give everyone. Treat everyone that way. And notice what else he says in between these two directives to honor others. “Fear God” (1 Pet 2:17). In case his audience missed it, Peter is putting the emperor in his place. Fear—or what might translated as “awe and wonder and reverence”—is due not the emperor, but God. Revere God, and honor his human creatures—all of them.

“When He Suffered…”

Today’s passage concludes with one of the Bible’s most troubling scriptures. Even the lectionary omits the very next verse because it seems indefensible in light of how our world will hear it.

18    Slaves, accept the authority of your masters with all deference, not only those who are kind and gentle but also those who are harsh.

It is because of this passage and other related passages that Jefferson Davis once proclaimed that slavery “was established by decree of Almighty God…it is sanctioned in the Bible, in both Testaments, from Genesis to Revelation.” Similarly the Rev. Richard Furman, for whom Furman University is named, preached, “The right of holding slaves is clearly established in the Holy Scriptures, both by precept and example.”

Allow me to rebut these arguments in swift fashion. To follow Christ in the way that Peter is encouraging his audience leaves absolutely no room for owning or controlling other people. On the contrary, following Christ means honoring others as free persons. Following Christ means positioning oneself under others as servants, not over them as masters. There is no “lording it over” others in the kingdom of God.

It is no coincidence that Peter only addresses slaves in his letter, not masters. The implication is clear. Peter knows that there are many slaves among his audience, but he does not expect there to be any slaveowners. For him, it would be a logical contradiction that a Christ-follower would own another person.

19 For it is a credit to you if, being aware of God, you endure pain while suffering unjustly. 20 If you endure when you are beaten for doing wrong, what credit is that? But if you endure when you do right and suffer for it, you have God’s approval. 21 For to this you have been called, because Christ also suffered for you, leaving you an example, so that you should follow in his steps.

The word “example” here is a unique Greek word that appears elsewhere in antiquity as a reference to the “pattern letters” that school children would carefully trace as they learned to write. In other words, Christ is our pattern, our stencil, guiding us to live in a good way.

22          “He committed no sin,

                              and no deceit was found in his mouth.”

23 When he was abused, he did not return abuse; when he suffered, he did not threaten; but he entrusted himself to the one who judges justly. 24 He himself bore our sins in his body on the cross, so that, free from sins, we might live for righteousness; by his wounds you have been healed. 25 For you were going astray like sheep, but now you have returned to the shepherd and guardian of your souls.

My sister-in-law laughs at the memories of when she dated a hand model. It didn’t go very far, particularly because this man cared so much about his hands. Numerous activities—such as cooking adventures and kayaking—were ruled out because of the potential for damage or undue stress to his hands. When she shares these memories, I think about a piece of advice I received regarding dating. “Pay close attention to how your date reacts when something inconvenient or unfavorable interrupts your date.” It could be a mix-up with your waiter. Or a maniac driver and a moment of road rage. (Or the proximity of a knife that could ruin a hand!) Whatever it is, it will tell you a whole lot more about your date than when things are going well.

As a diagnostic, I think the value of this advice goes far beyond the dating world. For example, there have been several soccer tournaments this summer that I’ve enjoyed watching on television, and one thing I’ve noticed is the different ways that team captains will respond in moments of adversity. Some will pout and put on a “woe-is-me” face, throwing their hands in the air, as though helpless to change the fortunes of their bumbling teammates. Others will double-down with encouragement, clapping their hands, embracing their crestfallen teammates, shouting words of support and reassurance. I know which kind of captain I’d like leading my team.

I don’t think it’s any coincidence that when Peter gives his audience the pattern of Christ to follow, he points them specifically to moments of hardship. “When he was abused, he did not return abuse; when he suffered, he did not threaten; but he entrusted himself to the one who judges justly” (1 Pet 2:23). We see the true colors of Christ when he encounters adversity. Unlike our world, he neither fights back nor flees. His acceptance of difficult realities should not be mistaken as validation of those realities, but rather understood as a deep, abiding trust in God and God’s kingdom. Indeed, Peter points out that it is precisely because Jesus remains faithful that we are saved: “by his wounds you have been healed” (1 Pet 2:24).

Only One Way

The paradox of our faith is that it does not presume to change the world, and yet we believe it is the only way our world will be changed. Peter does not set out to end slavery or patriarchy. He accepts these realities. But at the same time, he instructs his audience to live according to a different reality, one in which every person is honored, one in which conflict is not resolved through domination and fighting.

I’d like to conclude, then, by offering an example for further reflection. In Jackson, Mississippi, 1960, a small group of students and a professor, black and white, sat down at a Woolworth counter to be served. What they got instead, for over three hours, were all sorts of condiments—syrup, mustard, salt—poured on their heads, all sorts of insults poured on their soul. But they did not fight back. They endured the taunting and the shame and the violence. In a way that almost seems illogical or senseless, they honored the people persecuting them. Not because they were weak or spineless, but because they were strong in faith, modeling a different world, tracing themselves according to a different Pattern.

Now, they were trying to change their world. In that way, they were going beyond or outside the instructions of Peter. But what I find noteworthy is that, even while they sought change, they did it in a way that remained consistent with Peter’s instruction, which was originally Christ’s instruction. If they sought change, if they desired a particular result, they decided nonetheless that their noble end did not justify any means. Rather, they decided that there was only one means, only one way—the way of enduring love.

Prayer

Good shepherd
And guardian of our souls,
We entrust ourselves to you
…
Encourage us, as your servants,
To bow before others
Not in weakness
But in love. In Christ, our pattern: Amen.

 

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[1] Cf. Tertullian, On Idolatry, chapter 19.