My Savior Isn't An Insurrectionist

This is not the post I’d planned to write today. I’d planned to muse on how the the reset of the New Year, though in many ways arbitrary, kindles in us fresh hope that maybe this year will be different. Then, we woke up on New Year’s Day to a car that wouldn’t start. Our dryer broke this week. And now, making them seem childish in comparison, yesterday we saw a disgraceful attack on the U.S. Capitol and the democracy it represents. Gone are those thoughts on naive optimism. We’re back in the land of the living.

As I started to see the events in Washington D.C. unfold, I sat watching live updates on Twitter with tears streaming down my face. It was a day, sadly, I was not shocked to see, but it was one I had hoped and prayed would not come. Look at what has happened to us, I texted my dad. Look at what we’ve become. For all of the calls for “law and order” over the last months, “law” transferred to the whims of a mob, and order descended into chaos. And I grieved.

Above it all, one picture set me over the edge, sent the tears flowing, and made me beg, “Lord, have mercy.” Amidst the mob pushing up the Capitol Building steps, entangled with the Trump flags and the American flags, there it was in florescent yellow: JESUS SAVES. I saw others later, including a small wooden cross, with the words emblazoned in white.

And this is why I’m writing today. Because what we saw yesterday is not the way of the Jesus I follow, and yet violence has been baptized in His Name. This is not the first time this has happened in the history of the church or the history of our nation. The events of yesterday were not an unforeseen or unpreventable anomaly, but rather the natural overflow of the language and actions of both political and religious leaders. In this case, we are well past the point of holding space for different political applications of our theology. We have passed the point for finding unifying common ground in the midst of diverse views. (I do believe, for the record, these things are of incredible value.) We, in the American church (specifically the white, evangelical, American church that raised me), once again must take a good look and a prayerful reflection on the way of Jesus and of His Kingdom.

I’ve been thinking today of two moments in the last day of Jesus’ life. The first is the moment when, as Jesus is being arrested, Peter draws his sword and cuts off a man’s ear. It’s not a violent moment in a vacuum, just as yesterday was not a moment in a vacuum. It was the culmination of a misunderstanding, even among the disciples, about the type of Kingdom Jesus brought and the type of King He would be.

The Jews who longed for Messiah to come expected someone to come powerful, strong, victorious, and defeat their enemies. They expected a King on a war horse, bearing the sword, bringing Rome to her knees. But instead Jesus came asking them to love their enemies and pray for their persecutors. He exalted those who were lowly and overlooked—and even those who were hated. As we just rehearsed throughout the Christmas season, He came in a humble way, in a quiet way, setting aside His power to become a servant.

Jesus wasn’t interested in political power then. I don’t think He’s much interested in political power now. But Peter, bless him, didn’t understand this. And so he drew his sword, as if Jesus needed defending. Jesus chastised him and told him to put his sword away, and then he healed the man who had come along to take him to what would become a brutal end.

“My kingdom is not of this world,” Jesus would tell Pilate in the hours to come. “If my kingdom were of this world, my servants would have been fighting, that I might not be delivered over to the Jews” (John 18:36). Jesus’ Kingdom and power were not the type the Jews expected nor the form Pilate could recognize. It was not a kingdom of strongmen or brash shows of strength. It was not a power held by destroying or dehumanizing his enemies or by the size of an army. It was—and is—a kingdom where the lowly and weak are called blessed. It was a kingdom of peace and of service.

But this is not the sort of kingdom the Jews were looking for—and based on the events of yesterday, it’s not the sort of kingdom some who claim the name of Jesus want today. This leads me to the second episode I’ve been reflecting on—and I have the Bible Project to thank for that, as I heard them discussing it recently in a very unrelated podcast episode.

When Pilate found no cause to kill Jesus, he offered the Jews a choice for prisoner release: Jesus or Barabbas. Barabbas, which literally means “son of the father,” was an insurrectionist. According to the Gospel accounts, he had committed multiple crimes including robbery, insurrection, and murder. He was a freedom fighter, one dedicated (we can presume) to freeing Israel from her foreign oppressors. He fought in the way the Jews longed for the Messiah to fight—with the sword, with violence, to gain power. And on that day, when God’s people were offered a choice between these two “sons of the father,” they chose not the Son who spoke peace but the one who bore the sword. The true Son of the Father, who offered the way into the Kingdom of God, was sent to His death.

So, we come back to the current events at hand. If the mob yesterday had been faced with the same choice, which “son of the father” would they have chosen? In spite of their signs, there is no doubt in my mind. Though many of them, I am sure, would profess to be Christians, as would some who, though not present, cheered them on from afar, they show by their actions that they would rather follow the way of Barabbas, and not the Jesus they claim to follow. They want political power and expediency—at all costs. They think violence will bring about peace. And they do it in the name of God.

Thus we come face to face with the ugly, natural end of our failure in discipleship. This failure extends beyond the events of yesterday and the people who participated in them. We have sold ourselves out to the violence committed yesterday with a thousand tiny steps and silences, quietly supporting or ignoring the ideology that has allowed it to blossom. It has appeared time and time again throughout the history of the church, when we have lost sight of the suspicion Jesus teaches his followers to have towards earthly power.*

The church has failed these men and women, who see no incongruence with erecting a cross and a noose on the same lawn. She has failed her people when they pledge allegiance to a political party or a human leader above the Savior they claim to follow. We have failed when Christians cheer for a man who dehumanizes his enemies, who mocks those made in God’s image, who refuses to bend from arrogance, who incites violence, and who has the blasphemous audacity to suggest God needs his protection. We have failed in our discipleship when people do not have the ability to discern truth from lies or conspiracy theories from reality, no matter how many voices join in telling the same tale. We have failed when disciples of Jesus lose sight of a Kingdom that is infinitely larger and more precious than any nation or people group.

The answer for this will not come in trading one political party over another. It will not be remedied with a new administration or even with the prosecution of wrongdoers. The answer comes by taking a long look at our blind spots and graciously listening to our brothers and sisters who are trying to point them out. (For example, the white evangelical church in America can learn a lot from the Black church and the church in the Majority World. I have benefited greatly from diversifying the voices I listen to and developing friendships with people from different traditions and perspectives than my own.) It comes as we lament and repent over the ways we have played a part in this discipleship failure. And it comes as we humbly ask Jesus to show us the way of His Kingdom.

Today, many of us are grieving, and it feels appropriate to do so. But then we need to get back up—because we’ve got a lot of work to do.

*This is a longer conversation for another time, but as a student of church history, it becomes clear that increased earthly power and “influence” in culture is dangerous to the faithful witness of the church. This does not mean that Christians must alway forgo traditional power and influence, but it does mean they should always be held extremely suspect. We would do well to be aware of the dangers they have posed in the past and of the negative things that have resulted. The church is not the empire, and we would do well to remember this.

Politics and Discipleship: Practices to Engage Christianly with This Cultural Moment

I dislike politics. I always have. Some people, I know, love debating and studying policy, have minds that are fascinated by implications of precedent or economics, and find great delight in watching CSPAN. I am not one of them. There are topics I will talk about and engage with opposing views on long into the night. But politics is not one of them.

But even with those feelings—I have been wrestling for the last several years with something that, sadly, has become increasingly political: how we engage the world, our culture, and our government as Christians. And this is where the political world collides with one of those things I do deeply care about, think about, and talk about: discipleship.

In the Bible, we are given an all-inclusive, whole-of-life picture of discipleship. Jesus does not want a segment of your heart, mind, soul, and life. He wants to be Lord of all of it. So, we must continually revisit and prayerfully examine what faithful, discipleship-oriented engagement with our world looks like. We need to make sure we are thinking Christianly above, beyond, and before we think as a member of a particular political party. To do this, I believe we need to continually develop a Jesus-vision of the world and seek to adopt ever-more-clearly the biblical imagination for the Kingdom of God.

A quick note here. We’d have to dive a bit deeper to explore the various views Christians have and have had about the relationship between Christianity and culture, but we’ll save that for another time. To be brief, I would just say that it’s important to note that there is a diversity of views on this question based on time, place, and theological tradition, so I urge humility and careful consideration. Don’t assume your understanding is the only Christian view.

I do not want to discuss specific policies or candidates in this place or time. If you’re ever in my neck of the woods, I’d be happy to sit down and chat with you sometime. But I would like to provide what I think are some helpful practices to make sure we’re thinking Christianly first and foremost as we engage in this current social and political moment.

• Read your Bible. If you care about how God thinks about these issues, you need to read his Word. Spend time in the Gospels, carefully reading what Jesus taught and how He modeled the Kingdom of God. Spend time with other New Testament writers, carefully studying how they understood and applied these teachings of Jesus in their context. Another great place to study is the prophets—we get a strong picture of the character of God and the things He cares about.

As you read, do not cherry pick. Do not look for “proof texts” to back up what you already think. This is not a responsible or respectful way to read the Bible. Try to come to the Scripture humbly, praying for God to teach you, and spend time deeply and systematically studying the Bible. The Bible wasn’t written in the context of the 21st century, but it is still applicable to our time and place. Focus first on understanding the character of God, the picture of the Kingdom, etc., and then use those truths and principles and that biblical imagination of the world to consider how they apply to today.

• Do your study and thinking in community. There is incredible value in studying the Bible on your own—please do this. But this cannot be done in isolation, and it should not be done in an echo chamber. We do ourselves a grave disservice if we only read and listen to voices much like our own. Pay attention to who you are listening to. Do they come from your tradition, do they share all of your views, do they have a similar life experience? Similarity is not bad. But only listening to or building relationships with people like us allows us to lose sight of the bigger picture, makes us even blinder to our blindspots, and, frankly, undermines the beautiful diversity we find within God’s Kingdom.

  As you think through the biblical picture for how Christians are to engage with the world, make sure you take time to read, study, and think with people who are in some way unlike yourself. Read and listen to writers, theologians, and pastors who are from a different time, place, culture, socio-economic status, race, gender, political party, or theological tradition than you. You don’t have to agree with everything they say. But engage with them humbly and honestly. I guarantee they will have something to teach you, some way to expand your understanding of God, and some way to challenge a blindspot you didn’t know existed.

• Pay attention to what you consume. Here, again, we need to talk about echo chambers. There is great strength in hearing from a diversity of voices. It provides a broader view of an issue, helps you truly understand someone else’s opinion, and (again) helps you to avoid your own blindspots. Read, listen to, and watch media sources that come from a different perspective than you typically hold.
  
  Pay attention to your sources—is this source reputable, what sort of authority or expertise do these people bring to this issue, is this source peer-reviewed, what sort of evidence or logic is being presented, how do they engage with alternate opinions?
  
  Also, pay attention to the effects of what you consume. Does this person or media source encourage me to think critically, engage with others, and approach other views with calmness or kindness? Do do they stoke up anger and fear? Does this help to cultivate the fruit of the spirit in my life? Does this challenge my thinking or add to my perspective on the world, or does it encourage me to dig my heels deeper into my own particular corner? Does this help as I seek to love God and love my neighbor?

• Build relationships with and have conversations with people in real life. Social media can be a valuable tool. But I have yet to be convinced it is the best medium for having difficult, honest, humble, constructive conversations with people of different views. (If you have seen this work out positively, please, I’d love to hear your story.) Instead, I typically see lots of snark and sarcasm, unfair representations of opposing viewpoints, and words much more harsh and cruel than most would ever speak face-to-face.
  
  Learn to have these conversations in person. Learn to listen carefully. Learn to treat and speak of those who see the world differently than you with kindness and charity. Try to genuinely understand where someone is coming from, and learn to represent their perspective well, even if you don’t agree with it. Build real relationships with people who think differently than you, and learn from them.

• Practice and develop good, empathetic critical thinking skills. Critical thinking is something I increasingly see as a skill that needs to be developed. It takes practice. With this in mind, it could be worth practicing with an issue or disagreement that is simpler and less emotionally charged, to get this approach into your mental muscle memory.
  
  I’m sure there are people who have done much more work with this than I have, so at the risk of oversimplifying things, here are a few good starting points. Take time and care to understand the various viewpoints on an issue, to the extent that you could articulate a view different from your own in a way someone who holds that view would consider accurate and fair. Understand why that person holds the belief they do—most people have reasonable or at least understandable justifications of their opinions.
  
  Only once you have a clear understanding of the view at hand, consider it from your own perspective. How does it align with your beliefs and the way you see the world? Is there anything (even if small) you can agree with or empathize with? Then consider what you disagree with—and why? Learn to articulate this using a clear-headed explanation and explain why you disagree based on your worldview.
  
  Too often we approach diverging views fueled by emotions or more eager to make our “opponent” appear evil or less intelligent. This is not helpful critical thinking, and I do not believe it embodies Christian character. We don’t need to live in fear of different opinions, as if hearing someone out will corrupt us. And we do ourselves no good to respond to different opinions with defensiveness or personal attacks.
  
  Approaching complex issues in the way I’ve described will help you to see the complex facets of an issue, practice empathy even if you don’t agree with someone, and will help you to better understand and articulate your own opinions. It also gives you a continual opportunity to reexamine and rearticulate your understanding of how to approach various issues as a faithful disciple of Jesus.

Friends, hear me. I know that this is hard, and I know this process can make us uncomfortable. I’m on this journey with you, trying day by day to faithfully reflect and follow Jesus. We are living in a divisive world. And, in America, the fray will only become more vicious as we enter another political cycle. Be prepared. Be self-reflective. Be prayerful. My deepest desire for all of us who claim the name of Christ is that we could represent our Lord Jesus well before a watching world.

A Prayer for My Feet

I sat on a flimsy plastic stool, the same sort I’d propped on to eat street noodles a few days before. My eyes were closed, elbows resting on knees as I sat in a small circle of praying Christians. It was a little oasis during my week, a moment when I could relax my guard and enjoy the presence of other believers. I was enveloped by the prayers spoken into the room. There was peace here.

The middle-aged man beside me was praying, asking for the Lord’s protection, for provision, for wisdom in our work. He stopped suddenly. A pause? A moment for thought? An abruptly ended prayer?

I was confused when I opened my eyes slightly to peek at his face. It was contorted with emotion, his mouth tight, brow furrowed. The corners of his eyes were wet. What had he said that evoked such overwhelming emotion?

He continued, his voice thick. Father, let your Kingdom come in this place.

I’d heard these words oft-repeated in the Lord’s Prayer but never with so much desperation. Never before had I seen this petition for the Kingdom to come “on earth as it is in heaven” to bring a grown man to tears. I’d never thought its implications could be so profound. I couldn’t shake it.

I took his prayer with me to the streets of that remote corner of Asia: Father, let your Kingdom come. When I returned home at the end of that summer, I took it to the halls of my small Christian college, where so many of us were plagued with depression and perfectionism: Father, let your Kingdom come. It followed me to Central America, to rooms filled with sleeping foster children: Father, let your Kingdom come. It came with me to New England, and I carried it with me as I walked down our tree spotted street into town: Father, let your Kingdom come in this place.

Along the way, I’ve found this prayer shaping me, as our prayers so often do. It wasn’t merely a request thrown to the heavens. It became a moment in which I positioned myself for God to mold me. It was a moment in which He met me.

You can only pray that prayer so long until you start asking questions about what the Kingdom of God looks like or how we recognize its coming. When we pray “let your Kingdom come,” it’s only a matter of time until we start asking what role we play in that request.

I grew up in a tradition that largely understood the Kingdom of God as a future other-worldly reality. It was about the salvation of souls, and it was something to be escaped to when the Kingdom’s King returned (or when I went to heaven when I died).

But over the years, as this little prayer burrowed deeper into my soul, I began to meditate on what it meant for heaven to come to earth. The hope of New Creation captured my heart. I began to long for and keep my eyes open not only for the Kingdom that is not yet, but also the Kingdom that is already breaking into our world, the Kingdom I have been welcomed into, the Kingdom I am an ambassador for.

In his book Surprised by Hope, N.T. Wright describes our current actions as signs of the Kingdom that has arrived in Jesus and foretastes of all that is to come. We are to be “new-creation people here and now, bringing signs and symbols of the kingdom to birth on earth as in heaven. The resurrection of Jesus and the gift of the Spirit mean that we are called to bring real and effective signs of God’s renewed creation to birth even in the midst of the present age.”

We long for the day when the Kingdom comes fully and finally to earth. But until then, we embody the nature of the Kingdom and seek to bring its marks to our spheres of influence. We seek justice and reconciliation, truth and peace, freedom and wholeness, the restoration and healing of bodies and of souls. We work and “build for” (Wright’s language) the Kingdom precisely because of our deeply rooted hope that our prayers for the Kingdom to come will one day be answered completely.

I’ve learned that praying for the Kingdom of God to come to earth as it is in heaven is not a prayer that can remain in the seclusion of a prayer closet. We carry it with us when engage in the work of reconciliation or when we care for trafficking victims. It’s there when we care for the homeless and welcome the poor, when we fight to protect the dignity and life of all humankind. It surrounds us as we have spiritual conversations with a non-Christian friend or we disciple a fellow Christian into a deeper understanding of God’s love for them. It leads us as we seek the good and flourishing of our neighborhoods and cities. It’s a prayer we pray on our feet.

You Have Never Met A Mere Mortal

I've been concerned lately about the way we treat our fellow human beings. We could analyze this culturally or historically. But today, I'm specifically thinking of this as a Christian, about how those who claim the name of Christ treat their fellow human beings.

I believe that one of the fundamental principles of the Christian faith is that human beings - both men and women - are created in the image of God. We read of creation being God's handiwork and declaring his glory, yes. But it is only us who are made in his image. We, in some astonishing way, reflect more of what God is like than the most colorful sunset, the richest landscape, the most intricate flora and fauna. Out of all of this, out of all of the beauty of creation, we are the created thing that bears his likeness. 

This bestows an inherent dignity and glory to each human being. It (should) prohibit us from denigrating and dehumanizing each other. It (should) cause us to seek the flourishing and well being of every person on this planet, regardless of the language they speak, the color of their skin, their religion, their political views, their abilities, their lifestyle, because deeper than all of these things is the basic, dignifying image of God stamped on their being. 

When we see poverty, we should grieve, for these are humans made in God's image. When we see bloodshed and violence - in any corner of the globe - we should grieve, for these are humans made in God's image. When we see evil, we should grieve both for the victim and the perpetrator, for these are humans made in God's image. 

When we can put people into a category of "other," people we can hate or slander or vilify or overlook, we have forgotten. When we think we have found someone who is no longer worthy of our compassion or of grace, we have forgotten. When we are no longer disturbed by lives lost, by people suffering, by exploitation and displacement and abuse, when we can claim that a particular group of people "deserved" what was coming to them (or, God forbid, rejoice in their pain), we have forgotten. 

We have forgotten the image of God stamped on each human being who breathes. We have forgotten that Jesus has called us to love - our neighbor, the stranger, even those we consider our enemy. C.S. Lewis would say we've forgotten that "your neighbor is the holiest object presented to your senses." 

And we forget so often. So often we fall short in this, through our actions and inactions, through our words and attitudes, through overt and subtle means. It’s something I have to continually call myself back to. Our denial of the image of God in our fellow humans calls us to repentance. It draws us back to our desperate need of grace. It brings us to God, begging for his vision and his love for the world. 

I will leave you with some famous words from C.S. Lewis: 

It may be possible for each to think too much of his own potential glory hereafter; it is hardly possible for him to think too often or too deeply about that of his neighbor.

The load, or weight, or burden of my neighbor’s glory should be laid daily on my back, a load so heavy that only humility can carry it, and the backs of the proud will be broken.

It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare.

All day long we are, in some degree, helping each other to one or other of these destinations.

It is in the light of these overwhelming possibilities, it is with the awe and circumspection proper to them, that we should conduct all our dealings with one another, all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics.

There are no ordinary people.

You have never talked to a mere mortal.

Nations, cultures, arts, civilization—these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat.

But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit—immortal horrors or everlasting splendors.

- C.S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory

Who Is My Neighbor?

I noticed them when they arrived. 

The pleats of her skirt made a feminine flounce out of the stiff fabric. Her hair was perfectly coiffed. He wore slacks and a sports jacket, the unassuming tailored affair of the wealthy. 

They were seated at our table. His smile spread warmly across his face, sparkling in his eyes as he firmly shook my hand in introduction. She was quiet, but she leaned towards me in friendly confidence as she spoke with her face close to mine of their recent travels in Europe. 

She asked if I’d gotten to travel much. I told her of my year in Belize. Of my travels in China. Of our time in India. With this last mention, her eyes grew wide as she sat away from me in her chair, her chin tilted. 

“So you’ve been to India,” she said. “What did you think?” She spoke with a hushed frenzy, as if about to hear a piece of juicy gossip. 

I smiled as I remembered our brief trip. I told her of the precious friends we’d made, of the welcome we received. I told her of the delicious food, the beauty of the sea, the rich history. I told her of the incredible ministry and development work we observed, of the people who are tirelessly and creatively working to improve the lives of the children and the poor. 

As I spoke, my mind walked through my memories, transporting me to the other side of the world. We were sitting around the table with our newly made friends. We passed around the bowls filled with the Indian dishes I had watched being made in their kitchen earlier in the day. I had tried to take notes enough to replicate it at home. So many good conversations around that table. So much laughter. My heart swelled with fondness, with a desire to return, with longing to be with those precious people again. 

“We traveled there several years ago,” she said. “I desperately wanted to see the Taj Mahal. So, my sweet husband,” here she smiled across the table at him, “surprised me with a trip.” 

I smiled, nodding. I love hearing about the adventures of others, particularly to places I’ve been, particularly to places I love. 

“Well, I will never go back there,” she said, with breathy disgust. 

This was not what I was expecting. I tried not to let the confusion show on my face. It was clear I wouldn’t have to ask for the details of their disastrous trip.

“One day, they were driving us around, and they took us through the poor part of the city. The way those people lived! I have never seen anything like it. So much poverty. The dirt. Those children…” 

In my mind, I was on the back of a moped, clinging to the waist of the caseworker as we wound through the streets to the small slum where the transient construction workers were living with their families. The children would spread a tarp under the shadow of the rising concrete facade of an apartment complex and sit at our feet. They brought me their notebooks with deliberately traced letters. I pointed to the figure. “A,” they would say. Then the next. “B,” they would say. I could feel the curious eyes of their mothers as they peeked out from their doors at my back.

I was hearing the voice of the caseworker as we walked away—“I was once one of those children. But people came who cared about me, and they made sure I got an education. Now, I can do the same thing.” I thought of the money she was saving to care for her ailing father. 

My attention returned to the woman beside me, now leaning in again as she spoke. “When you get to be my age, seeing things like that changes you.” She shuddered and shook her head—as if the mental image were on an etch-a-sketch and she could shake it away.