This much, actually, I’d managed to grasp for some time, but I hadn’t really ever put it in contrast to more traditional theology, the theology that, short of Pentecost, is generally heard in the Church.

The light went on when I found myself singing the table grace I love so much, and wow, can my family and can the Lutheran family sing this baby in harmony:

Be present at our table, Lord!
Be here and everywhere adored!
These mercies bless and grant that we…

And here, of course, comes a decision that has to be sussed out before the prayer even begins.

Will the collective sing:

May feast in paradise with Thee!

Or will it be:

Be strengthened for Thy service be!

It matters, of course.

The first version is classic low-church piety, a hope that despite and through the trials of life, there will be rest and gladness to meet us at the end.

The second instead recognizes that the food we are about to eat nourishes us for a life of faith, which might, in fact, throw us into and call up a few trials.

Either way, centered in the good Lord and the good singing, we settle in to good food.

But I got to wondering what a different vibe we’d have if the prayer were sung like this:

Be active at our table, Lord!

Be active, Lord.

Move and move us, Lord.

Be a holy verb and form us into holy verbs which act in your holy name.

~~~~~

Preparing for Advent, the season of preparation, I got my first tattoo.

It only took a decade or so for me to finally get one, and to figure out why I kept being stirred to get one.

As I’ve fussed with the idea over the years, I’ve loved listening to or reading people’s tattoo story, and why they got them.

Threaded through all the takes was that a tattoo marked externally something that was key internally: an intentional scar that, like all scars, comes with a story.

Perhaps it’s a visual tale of an event, a person, a conviction, a symbol that represented a moment or belief or identity; regardless, tattoos are a perceptible memory and/or reminder for others, but most of all for the person who carries the tattoo.

When I came across the work of Ben Wildflower, and specifically the image here, I almost heard it say, “This one belongs on you,” and I did say, “You know, I think this one belongs on me.”

Strangest thing, actually, and I know it.

But Wildflower’s Magnificat manages to synthesize most everything I hold dear about theology: God’s commitment to those on the margins and who suffer under unjust systems; our call and blessing to be an ambassador of God’s intentions for the world; and the power of women, power which God recognizes even if patriarchy doesn’t.

Seems to me, as a not-very-aside, that if a woman bears God in her belly for 9 months and bears God from her womb in a stable, that she can also bear the Word of God from her mouth in a pulpit.

Anyway.

Wildflower is not just an artist, but a theologian.

I invite you to read up about him and his art here and in the Washington Post here and, regarding his Magnificat, here, and heck for that matter just do a google search for “Wildflower” and “Magnificat” and then get comfy because there’s a lot to discover and absorb.

Elizabeth Johnson, Roman Catholic theologian and Professor Emerita of Fordham University, wrote a reflection on Mary’s song: you can it find online here, and regardless of whether Wildflower himself has ever read it, the gist of her words is in his work.

The Magnificat, Dr. Johnson writes, is deeply, inherently, and necessary political.

Listen—really lean in here—to her:

“Rooted in the biblical heritage of Palestinian Jewish society, this is clearly a revolutionary song of salvation whose concrete social, economic, and political dimensions cannot be blunted. People are hungry because of triple taxes being exacted for Rome, the local government, and the temple. The lowly are being crushed because of the mighty on their thrones in Rome and their deputies in the provinces. Now, with the nearness of the messianic age, a new social order of justice is at hand. Mary’s canticle praises God for the kind of salvation that involves concrete transformations.

People in need in every society hear a blessing in this canticle. The battered woman, the single parent without resources, those without food, the homeless family, the young abandoned to their own devices, the old who are discarded–all who are subjected to social contempt are encompassed in the hope Mary proclaims.”

There are those who say that faith is not to be political.

To them I can say nothing but read the prophets, perhaps chief among them Mary.

She—herself quite possibly enslaved—knew that salvation wasn’t about the bye and bye like pie in the sky.

Mary knew that God had been transformative in the lives of her Jewish ancestors, and she knew that, in the one she was now bearing, God would be salvatory in the lives of her people again.

The form of her hope is concrete, because her life which was in so many ways oppressed was concrete.

Johnson takes it on:

“Here [Mary] takes on as her own the divine no [ital. mine] to what crushes the lowly. She stands up fearlessly and sings out that it will be overturned. No passivity here, but solidarity with divine outrage over the degradation of life and with the divine promise to repair the world. In the process she bursts out of the boundaries of male-defined femininity while still every inch a woman. Singing of her joy in God and God’s victory over oppression, she becomes not a subjugated but a prophetic woman.”

In Mary’s theology—Dr. Johnson has called her a theologian, which I do believe she is—God is not passive, and neither does God believe she herself should be.

God is active.

And so is Mary.

For this reason, take a look at how, and why, Wildflower transforms the Magnificat.

It’s not the past tense—the holy recollection and grounding in Mary’s hymn of God’s history (for you theology nerds out there, God’s Heilsgeschichte) of transformative action—that we see in Luke 1:51-53:

He has shown strength with his arm;
he has scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts.
He has brought down the powerful from their thrones and lifted up the lowly;
he has filled the hungry with good things and sent the rich away empty.

In his visual Magnificat, he’s rendered in the imperative:

Cast down the mighty
Send the rich away
Fill the hungry
Lift the lowly

So, yeah.

About that.

Wildflower writes:

“I changed it from the past/passive…which is something I first heard done when we attended St. Marks, Locust St., an Anglo-Catholic church on Epiphany Sunday and the liturgy phrased it as “Cast down the mighty from their thrones. Amen. Lift up the lowly. Amen. Fill the hungry with good things. Amen. Send the rich away empty. Amen.” This really stuck with me as St. Mark’s is in an extremely wealthy neighborhood and attended by lots of folks not lacking in material means. By singing these words there was an admission that the words of Scripture really do call us to economic justice.

This is why I put her fist in the air. There are enough images out there focusing on the lowliness and meekness of Mary. I wanted to make one that highlights her holy rage and her indictment of an economic system built on idolatrous ideas about what kind of people do or don’t deserve things like food and shelter. I like that Mary.”

I like that Mary too.

That Mary indicts me, liberates me, empowers me, connects me, encourages me, sends me.

And now, every morning when I get out of the shower in the morning or get ready for bed at night, that Mary reminds me whose I am, and who I am.

In a sermon preached on the Third Sunday of Advent, December 17, 1933, Dietrich Bonhoeffer spoke of Mary and her song.

He might not have been a process theologian, but he sure understood an active God.

Bonhoeffer preached, “If we want to participate in this Advent and Christmas happening, we cannot simply be like spectators at a theater performance, enjoying all the familiar scenes, but we must ourselves become part of this activity, which is taking place in this ‘changing of all things.’ We must have our part in this drama. The spectator becomes an actor in the play. We cannot withdraw ourselves from it.”

He also proclaimed this: Mary’s song, he said, is the oldest Advent song, and is “at once the most passionate, the wildest, one might even say the most revolutionary Advent hymn ever sung.”

Mary the revolutionary.

That’s a different take on the woman, isn’t it.

As it happens, Advent begins another revolution of the Church year.

Maybe Advent, and maybe Mary, can begin a revolution of our hearts, minds, voices, ways, and priorities, and—as we stare down an election year when come November our democracy, justice, and even basic kindness is on the line—a revolution of our votes so that the mighty, the rich, the hungry, and lowly will each experience a revolution, and also a restoration, of who they are intended to be.

The Divine No to passivity, power, and wealth that oppresses.

The Divine Yes to activity, liberation, and justice.

Welcome to Advent.

We say we want it.

Who wouldn’t want, as faith language so often puts it, to be “delivered from sin and death?”

Turns out pretty much those who don’t want to be confronted with their sin and the death it causes, or those who benefit from the sin, even if it causes death.

~~~~~

Case in point: as I’ve said before (OK fine: lots of times before), my New Testament professor at Trinity Lutheran Seminary, Mark Allen Powell, taught that one can argue that the primary message of the Gospel of Luke is this:

Just as the poor should and will be redeemed from their poverty, so too should and will the rich be redeemed of their wealth.

That’s a, if not the, key takeaway via Luke: the redemption of economic inequity and all the messed up nonsense, not to mention death, it causes.

Right.

So who would want to be redeemed of poverty?

The poor, of course.

Who would want to be redeemed of wealth?

[looks around]

Anyone?

[waits a spell]

Right.

Not a lot of takers.

So why would this be?

Because being rich has perks: if you have money, especially more than enough money, you have food, you have secure housing, you have safe housing, you have clothing, you have health care, you have better schools, you have tech and internet access, you have leverage-worthy connections, and a Starbucks double latte is not a splurge but a choice: it’s either that or the triple macchiato.

As far as the perks of being poor…not so much.

The thing of it is, the poor and the wealthy are both harmed by their respective circumstances, by these two sides of the same coin: the poor do not have enough, and the rich have more than they need.

The set-up is death-dealing to the poor, and it’s death-dealing to the rich.

The only difference is that one group can see it, and the other doesn’t want to.

~~~~~

Redemption means a reversal, a righting, a re-writing of how things have been, so that things can be made new, more just, and more whole.

This is why the poor want redemption, and the rich do not.

Redemption changes the circumstances of the poor, which is a soon-and-very-soon long time in coming, and of the wealthy, which, if they’d have their druthers, would be staved off for a long time longer.

More fundamentally, redemption changes them.

The poor are no longer defined by their poverty, nor the rich by their wealth.

And that, that right there, that’s the tricky, scary piece about redemption, at least for those who are redeemed from their privilege.

Your privilege matters only long enough for it to be taken away.

Now, you have just you, the grace of God, and the mercy of others, including mercy extended by those whom you have had a history of oppressing.

~~~~~

Black Lives Matter.

There are so many reasons to say these words, but just saying them is a sign that redemption is en route.

To say Black Lives Matter means, just like Mary said (in the Gospel of Luke, of course), that we’re in the process of seeing that “…[The Lord] has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly…”

This is precisely why these spoken, redemptive words, “Black Lives Matter,” so unsettle white people in power (and who among us who is white does not hold some modicum of power).

Redemption is coming.

The power dynamic is changing.

Circumstances are changing.

And we are being asked to change.

This is why redemption sounds good, but is way less welcome than you’d think.

Whites don’t want to change, at least not in the deep ways to which redemption calls us, because we like our privilege more than we like being redeemed of it.

~~~~~

We’ve seen all too often, and horribly, terribly, just again three days ago here in Minnesota, that Black Lives do not matter if you are a Black life stopped by the police.

If you are Black, that you have outdated tabs, or an air freshener hanging down from your mirror, or passed a counterfeit bill regardless of whether you knew, or were driving a new vehicle, or had a broken tail light, or are sleeping in your own bed, or are playing in your street, or are Driving While Black, all of these non-essentials matter more than your actual esse, more than your actual life does.

Because of this and for far too long, people of color have been crying out for the redemption of this system that kills them, of this way of policing that shows time and time and time again that racist violence is baked into the Blue.

Blacks want policing to be redeemed; to be made new, to be made more just, and to not be so damn broken.

But you know who doesn’t seem to want this redemption?

The police writ large.

Yes, there have been internal reforms.

Yes, there have been codified reforms.

Yes, millions have been spent on policing reforms.

But still and even so, Black people, Black men especially, keep getting shot by the police.

Racism is more powerful than reform, it seems.

That right there, that’s a circumstance, that’s a way of being, that’s a truth in need of redemption.

Blacks, and police, are both harmed by their respective circumstances, two sides of the same coin: Blacks are victims of racism, and policing is racist.

~~~~~

So of course Blue Lives Matter.

But the Blue Way of Life does not matter more than Black Lives.

The Blue Way of Life—one fueled not just by racism, but by classism, violence, mistrust, hostility, power, incarceration culture, and indemnity—is killing Black Lives.

From headquarters to holsters, policing policies and culture kill Blacks.

So it needs to be redeemed, it needs to be made new again, it needs to be made more just, and it needs not only to be not so broken, but to stop breaking so many people.

After so many attempts at reforms, whether policing can be redeemed in its present form is no longer a question: it can’t.

Whether policing is open to being redeemed at all, that is a question.

Policing is fully aware that, if redeemed, it will have much to lose: authoritarian power, presumptive immunity, and the addiction to white supremacy.

But better that policing loses its way of life than that one more Black life get lost to policing.

Reform is not enough.

Policing needs to be redeemed, delivered from sin and death, freeing blacks who suffer them at the hands of police, and freeing police who wield them against Blacks, whose lives do, indeed, all evidence to the contrary, matter.

~~~~~

Further information related to police reform:

Nine criminal justice experts offer suggestions how to reform police found here.

Human Rights Watch offers 14 ways that police can be reformed, including community investing, here.

The New York Times engaged five experts to discuss police reform here.

The Guardian delves into why police reform has failed here.

Yale University analyzes the last five years of police shooting and its static racial disparity here.

The Nation digs into the history of policing to show its inherent and intransigent racism here.

It has been far too long since I have blogged!

Covid—not the virus, but the consequences of its broad scale havoc played out in our little world—has claimed our family’s attention, complicated by a significant three-fer brain, spine, and abdominal surgery for my son in mid-July, which happily resolved issues that have been causing us consternation and deep concern for about ten months.

We’re just now catching our breath, right in time for the breathless beginning of school—however that will look!

While I haven’t been able to write as I’d like, I do have several blogs in my mental queue.

But the below is the first of several in the upcoming weeks that I’ll put forth.

It’s a sermon I preached last Sunday, August 30th, at my beloved home congregation, Gloria Dei Lutheran Church.

You can find the video of the worship service here, although it is a trimmed version of what I have written below.  The sermon begins at 33:30 into the service.

Here is also an audio link of the sermon, recorded while I was sitting crouched on the floor in a second-floor very Harry-Potter-esque and quite full closet, because my beloved 83-year-old father was downstairs, bamming nails into a floor he’s brilliantly installing for us, because he’s amazing.

So if you don’t watch the video, that scene can be your substitute visual!

In it, with great assists from Soroya Chemaly, Hannah Arendt, and, of course, the texts (found at the end of this blog, from Jeremiah, and the Psalms, and Paul, and Matthew) of the day and the contexts of the day, I fuss with the uncertain, uncomfortable relationship Christians have with anger.

Despite our reluctance to express, let alone recognize, our own anger, anger itself is a force for justice, a calibration to righteousness, and a rejection of acquiescence to the powerful and corrupt.

In the texts from the 13th Sunday after Pentecost, we hear that very notion powerfully expressed, in more ways than one, from Jesus.

With that:

~~~~~

Grace to you, and peace, from our risen Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

Siblings in Christ, we Christians, we have an anger problem.

And our problem with anger, our anger issue, is that we have no idea what to do with anger.

And I am here to say that, at first blush at least, the texts for today are not in the least helpful to us to sort matters out.

Jeremiah, in not one of his most bright-spirited, optimistic moments, prays for retribution upon his enemies, and lays the reasons for his own indignation squarely at God’s feet.

And not mincing a single word or leaving anything to the imagination, the psalmist condemns the worthless—among whom, he makes a point of noting, he has not “sat” (using a Hebrew word which doesn’t mean, literally, to ‘sit’ with, like on a bus or park bench or coffee hour table, but rather “hung out with,” or, more starkly, “became like,”) nor did he cozy up with the deceitful, and moreover, the psalmist even ‘hates’—hates!—the evildoers!

That all seems to give anger some room to do its thing, and with some measure of divine blessing.

But then along comes Paul, far more placid, far more diplomatic—and far more pleasing to and resonant in our ears—who speaks not of hating the evildoers but of hating evil, and of living in peace, of feeding enemies and giving them refreshment, and of overcoming evil with good.

And yet along comes Jesus, who seems to have known the freedom of Jeremiah and the psalmist, and he steamrolls right in to our lectionary on this day, this paradigm of love, this model of benevolence, seen in our collective minds’ eye as laughing with his head thrown back, as gently carrying that lost and forlorn sheep, as gathering the (always well-behaved) children around him, we see this one whirling around to Peter, the one he’d just called the Rock, and up and call him a stumbling block, of all things, instead. 

Like, clever as that is, what an epic slam: from rock to block. 

But even more shocking, Jesus bellows out, “Get behind me SATAN!” 

Satan! 

He called Peter Satan!

Were Matthew to have had a wide-eyed emoji at hand, he would have totally whipped it out onto the sheepskin parchment, right here, I tell you what.

Yet as often as not, we hear the text read, “Get behind me, Satan.”

But if you have enough energy to say those sorts of words, you absolutely have enough energy to yell them.

Get behind me Satan, said our Lord Jesus, the Christ, to Peter. 

That is not Minnesota nice. 

That is not tactful. 

That is not “appropriate.”

How, we might wonder, as these days is often expressed with a shaking head and scolding finger and with wishes for civility instead of anger, how will Jesus win Peter to his side if he raises his voice?

If he speaks so bluntly?

If he speaks truth?

If he calls a thing what it is is?

He should just be nice.

~~~~~

So what’s the collective Scriptural take-away here?

Is anger ok or not? 

Is rage holy or unrighteous?

It’s a question, of course, that’s presently pressing upon us politically, culturally, socially, and even within our own families. 

En masse, we are in every one of those very spheres steeped in anger, like a bag of tea left too long in the cup, the hot beverage becoming thick and bitter.

But we tend drink it, we drink it anyway, lips pursed in both disgust and forced politeness. 

“No, no, it tastes fine, really,” we say, swallowing the sludge down with a taut smile.

Everything is fine.

Everything is awesome, we say politely.

In fact, of course, everything is everything but fine, and few things are awesome.

~~~~~

So our ambivalence about anger has to do with many things, I believe.

Politeness, for one: it is not polite to be angry. 

Anger is not nice.

And in the land famous (infamous?) for being nice, being angry is out of decorum, is a breach of ethic, it defies the code.

And anger causes conflict…though more precisely, this perceived emotional problem child is only recognizing and naming conflict.

Anger forces people to wrestle in the open with disagreement, to own what one says and to dispute that which is claimed by another.

Anger is neither pleasant nor pretty: red faces, raised voices, rapid pulses, and sometimes irreparable breaches.

And so it is better, we tend to think, it is in fact best, of course, to gloss the problem over.

To ignore it.

To pretend it doesn’t exist. 

But here’s the thing.

The reasons for the anger do exist. 

There are legitimate reasons, not least of all during these deeply troubled, troubling days, to be angry, and, like Jeremiah, like the psalmist, to be angry precisely in the very name of God.

See, I read Paul’s words and I worry about the women and girls who perhaps just last night, perhaps even this morning, have been abused verbally, physically, emotionally, sexually by men in their lives, by people who should be trusted but have squandered that privilege, and they come to hear the Word of God on Sunday which, they might think, tells them to bring their abuser another latte to them in the early morning and it will get better, promise. 

And I want to say to them: wait! Wait! 

No, no, that’s not what Paul meant. 

That’s not what God meant. 

You are not meant to be harmed. 

You, too, are to be loved, to be tended, to be safe.

Instead Paul’s words are, in part, a promise to not doubt that God knows justice, and will wield it.

It’s a reminder to, as Michelle Obama so famously said, go high when they go low.

Do not sit with them.

Do not become like them.

Do not let your anger be denied so that you lose hope and lose yourself.

~~~~~

It turns out that the more that we suppress our anger, that we gloss it over, that we stay silent instead of speaking up with righteous indignation at wrongs in the world at large or in our small, personal world, the more we end up protecting those causing harm rather than those suffering it—including ourselves.

We write them a carte blanche, we give them a pass, there are no repercussions for their actions, we allow it and thereby endorse, and empower, whatever it is that in fact is reason for, gives root to, legitimate, righteous anger.

But even that, even that, isn’t quite the full story, because a competing truth is that the more that we suppress our anger, that we gloss it over, that we stay silent instead of speaking up with righteous indignation, we even leave the harm-causers vulnerable to their own harm.

Our silence, our fake smiles, our let’s-pretend-that-didn’t-happens, our it’s-best-to-be-nice-s, it all continues not only to allow the sufferers to continue to suffer, but it continues the harm-inflicters to continue to harm. 

They never know it’s not ok. 

They never see the pain that they inflict on others and therefore that they inflict on themselves.

The “pinned tweet” on the ELCA Twitter page says about the rampant killings of black people, “This is an existential threat to people of color. It must be an existential threat to white people too.”

So who’s gonna tell ‘em?

Someone’s got to tell them.

~~~~~

Recently, for some research on a project I’ve got before me, I picked up Soroya Chemaly’s book Rage Becomes Her. Chemaly has dived into the study of women’s anger: the way we suppress it, the way it is disdained and disallowed by the world, and how instead we, and the world, ought rather to pay acute attention to it. 

In 2013, when George Zimmerman was acquitted after killing Trayvon Martin in 2012, Alicia Garza inadvertently founded the Black Lives Matter movement, simply by ending a Facebook post rueing the verdict with the words “black lives matter.” Seven years later, with the hashtag #BLM, adorned with T-shirts and pins and bumper stickers, people are walking the streets, kneeling in stadiums, postponing games, and, moreover, painfully, still needing to.

Chemaly spoke with Garza about her activism, and what inspires her to engage with the Powers That Be. Garza replied, “Anger at injustice is one part of what motivates me. But it is not a sustainable emotion in and of itself. It has to be transformed into a deep love for the possibility of who we can be. Anger can be a catalyst, but we cannot function on anger alone. When it’s not used properly, it can quickly become destructive. That’s why love is important: love connects us to what we most care about; what we yearn for,” (251).

See, says Garza, and Chemaly throughout her entire book, anger is an emotion that lets a person know that something is off: there is an unacceptable distance between what is and what should be. Justice is wanting, and righteousness is therefore too.

And anger is an indication that you care enough to notice, to react, and to do something about it.

But what is the ‘ït?’ 

What deserves anger?

Our texts today begin to give us some ideas.

The anger with which the texts dance is not capricious anger, is not petty anger, is not anger that is mistaken for aggression or unhinged, unfounded violence.

It is righteous indignation based not on our evaluations of what should be vs. what is, but on God’s.

Jesus hauled off and called out Peter, with the added nice-touch detail of calling him ‘Satan,’ because Peter didn’t believe that following Jesus means you’re going to run into discomfort, awkward moments, conflict, and even death.

He still didn’t grasp that Jesus’ ways are not the world’s, by and large.

Arguably, we who call ourselves Christians still don’t either.

For example: 

Jesus welcomed strangers, and exhorted us to too. 

Instead, we build walls. 

Jesus said to let the children come to him. 

Instead, we put them in cages and tear them from their parents. 

Jesus said to feed the hungry. 

Instead, we cut SNAP funding.

Jesus said to heal the sick. 

Instead, we scream at employees who insist that customers wear masks, and we create policies which make access to health care an impossibility for the poor and unemployed.

Jesus said to love our neighbors, and instead we segregate neighborhoods.

It is outrageous.

While Jesus was informed by his heavenly father, let’s be clear: his earthly mama shaped him too, this woman who declared in the name of God that the powerful did not deserve their thrones but deserved rather to be thrown from them, that the rich would learn of emptiness while the poor would learn what it is to be sated, that the proud would be humbled and the humble would know pride.

She understood the agenda of God. 

She spoke uncomfortable truth.

She lays out the grounds for righteous indignation: where you see disparity in any of these ways, there is reason to rise up in holy anger, because if you do not, you acquiesce to evil or succumb to a dangerous, willful obliviousness to it. 

Peter, of course, Peter knew the risks.

He knew that the powers that like things the way they are do not like to have holy, and contrary, truth pointed out. 

Peter knew that if Jesus felt it incumbent upon him to, as years later brother Martin Luther would say, “call a thing what it is,” he’d die.

And we can’t have that.

But here’s the thing: one of the most harmful tendencies of the Christian Church is to spiritualize death, or at the least, to restrict it to “taking a last breath.”

Any of us know, however, any of us who have an aversion to, say, anger, we know you don’t need to croak to die. 

Speaking out, calling out, being outraged at injustice will cause death. 

That’s a promise.

Righteous anger can and will cause the death of friendships, of love relationships, of familial relationships, of collegial relationships, of Facebook friends, of security on any number of levels. 

But here’s the freeing thing: naming evil can also bring death to evil.

You expose evil for what it is.

Rather than allowing injustice to prevail at the expense of the least of these, who depend on your voice—and let us not forget that you yourself might deserve your anger on your own behalf—, rather than trusting the power of death more than you are trusting the promise of life, rather than ceding death a win, your anger can recalibrate a situation so that it is aligned not with evil, not with death, but with gospel hope and life.

See, here’s the thing that Jesus knew, and what he longed that Peter knew, and that I long for Christians to know is this: the Gospel is not “be nice.” 

The Gospel is not “avoid conflict.” 

The Gospel is that Jesus is risen from the dead. 

And, if that is true, as my mentor Walt Bouman said time and time again, “Now that you know that death doesn’t win, there is more to do with your lives than preserve them.” 

“Now that you know that death doesn’t win, there is more to do with your lives than preserve them.” 

When, that is, when we refuse to give expression to our anger, we are preserving our lives, and we are preserving, we are protecting, the power of death. 

That’s no way for a Christian to be, for we are resurrection people. 

We live according to the call of Jesus, which, as this text makes clear, will call us to death, but which also calls us to life.

Jesus was angry with Peter because when push came to shove, quite literally, in the end, Peter trusted death rather than Jesus.  

When our mouths stay silent, when we let dysfunctional systems stay intact, when our silence, our our apathy, or our pleasant smiles allow leaders and those who support them to, for example, pass white supremacists as very fine people, we are no better than Peter.

And you can bet that Jesus is not saying to us gently, sweetly, nicely, “Get behind me Satan.” 

He’s bellering it out! To us! “GET BEHIND ME SATAN!”

Because Satan, the ambassador of death, lives off of benign silence and feigned politeness.

That’s how Satan gets its power.

 A Jewish philosopher Hannah Arendt spoke of that very thing when she detailed the Nürnberg Trial of Adolf Eichmann, one of Hitler’s Nazis, and an architect of the Holocaust.

Arendt coined the term “the banality of evil,” as she mused about how ordinary people, folks like you and me, can empower totalitarian regimes of hate, racism, bigotry, and violence.

Evil can become, and in some cases arguably has become ordinary. The norm. Tolerable.

But not if you follow Jesus.

Chemaly writes, “Anger has a bad rap, but it is actually one of the most hopeful and forward thinking of all our emotions. It begets transformation, manifesting our passion and keeping us invested in the world. It is a rational and emotional response to trespass, violation, and moral disorder. It bridges the divide between what ‘is’ and what ‘ought’ to be, between a difficult past and an improved possibility.” (xx) “In anger, whether you like it or not, there is truth…Anger is the expression of hope” (295).

Anger is the expression of hope. 

Now there’s a plot twist.

Sort of like the dead guy rising again.

See, when we are angry, whether we realize it or not, we are announcing to ourselves and to the world both truth and that there must be a better way. 

And as Christians, we announce to ourselves and to the world that we know that there is a better way, for our selves, for those crushed by systems of violence, degradation, bigotry, racism, misogyny, classism, and self-absorption, and also by those who wield such things with finesse, willfulness, and neither compunction nor consequence. 

Anger, that is, is just as Chemaly, just as Jeremiah, just as the Psalmist, just as Jesus, and if you squint, even Paul in this text says, anger is an indication that something is not right. 

And if it is not right, it is not righteous. 

And if it is not righteous, it is an ambassador of some form of death. 

And Christians, in contrast, are ambassadors of life, are those who defy death, are those who call a thing what it is, are those who get angry, and in so doing, do not reward evil with evil, but rather reward it with goodness and truth and life.

~~~~~

The Texts for the 13th Sunday after Pentecost, August 30, 2020

FIRST READING                                                  Jeremiah 15:15-21

15O Lord, you know;
remember me and visit me,
and bring down retribution for me on my persecutors.
In your forbearance do not take me away;
know that on your account I suffer insult.
16Your words were found, and I ate them,
and your words became to me a joy
and the delight of my heart;
for I am called by your name,
O Lord, God of hosts.
17I did not sit in the company of merrymakers,
nor did I rejoice;
under the weight of your hand I sat alone,
for you had filled me with indignation.
18Why is my pain unceasing,
my wound incurable,
refusing to be healed?
Truly, you are to me like a deceitful brook,
like waters that fail.
19Therefore thus says the Lord:
If you turn back, I will take you back,
and you shall stand before me.
If you utter what is precious, and not what is worthless,
you shall serve as my mouth.
It is they who will turn to you,
not you who will turn to them.
20And I will make you to this people
a fortified wall of bronze;
they will fight against you,
but they shall not prevail over you,
for I am with you
to save you and deliver you,
says the Lord.
21I will deliver you out of the hand of the wicked,
and redeem you from the grasp of the ruthless.

PSALM                                                                             Psalm 26:1-8

 1Give judgment for me, O Lord, for I have lived | with integrity;
I have trusted in the Lord and | have not faltered.
2Test me, O | Lord, and try me;
examine my heart | and my mind.
3For your steadfast love is be- | fore my eyes;
I have walked faithful- | ly with you.
4I have not sat | with the worthless,

  nor do I consort with | the deceitful. 
5I have hated the company of | evildoers;
I will not sit down | with the wicked.
6I will wash my hands in inno- | cence, O Lord,
that I may go in procession | round your altar,
7singing aloud a song | of thanksgiving
and recounting all your won- | derful deeds.
8Lord, I love the house in | which you dwell
and the place where your glo- | ry abides.

SECOND READING                                                  Romans 12:9-21

9Let love be genuine; hate what is evil, hold fast to what is good; 10love one another with mutual affection; outdo one another in showing honor. 11Do not lag in zeal, be ardent in spirit, serve the Lord. 12Rejoice in hope, be patient in suffering, persevere in prayer. 13Contribute to the needs of the saints; extend hospitality to strangers.
14Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse them. 15Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep. 16Live in harmony with one another; do not be haughty, but associate with the lowly; do not claim to be wiser than you are. 17Do not repay anyone evil for evil, but take thought for what is noble in the sight of all. 18If it is possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all. 19Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave room for the wrath of God; for it is written, “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.” 20No, “if your enemies are hungry, feed them; if they are thirsty, give them something to drink; for by doing this you will heap burning coals on their heads.” 21Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.

GOSPEL                                                                   Matthew 16:21-28

21From that time on, [after Peter confessed that Jesus was the Messiah,] Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day be raised. 22And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him, saying, “God forbid it, Lord! This must never happen to you.” 23But he turned and said to Peter, “Get behind me, Satan! You are a stumbling block to me; for you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.”
24Then Jesus told his disciples, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. 25For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it. 26For what will it profit them if they gain the whole world but forfeit their life? Or what will they give in return for their life? 27“For the Son of Man is to come with his angels in the glory of his Father, and then he will repay everyone for what has been done. 28Truly I tell you, there are some standing here who will not taste death before they see the Son of Man coming in his kingdom.”

It can skillfully drape itself in righteous speech, all the while really cloaking its comfortable and contented status.

But privilege also cunningly hides, even from the people of privilege themselves, death-dealing anxious determination about maintaining societal advantages.

So with that said, and as a shining example, I bristle, truly I do, when I hear rostered leaders talk about needing to “meet my people where they are.”

I just heard it in a couple of private and distinct conversations the other day, as a matter of fact.

“I’ve gotta meet my people where they are.”

That’s the phrase, right there.

Now it -sounds- good.

It sounds righteous even.

It certainly sounds pastoral.

It definitely sounds like what a leader of a specific community is called to do, namely meet their people where they are.

And I do believe that for the most part, rostered leaders mean well when they say it.

But I’ve come to decide that there’s a decent shot that actually, it’s -not- always good, righteous, pastoral, or what at leader in a community is called to do.

Thing is, when we decide to “meet ‘our’ people where they are,” we can’t help but simultaneously (albeit cloaked in that wily-privileged way) leave -other- people, the very people who need the -rest- of us to move from where -we- are, well…we can’t help but leave them where -they- are.

So when we hear the phrase “I need to meet my people where they are,” I think what we should actually hear, especially these days, is less even-the-best-of-intentioned pastoral move, and more the hidden message—hidden even to the leader, I do believe—that we’re supposed to be ok with that, down with it, content with it, because those are not ‘our people,’ they are not ‘us.’

They are ‘other.’

The wretched thing of it is, -nobody- is where they are supposed to be.

Moreover, the white rostered tendency to want to meet people of privilege where they are is precisely what keeps the status quo, which is precisely that which keeps everybody where they aren’t supposed to be.

I will say again and again and again that the pastoral is the prophetic, and the prophetic is the pastoral.

Black.

Lives.

Matter.

Insular preaching and teaching, that which is offered to meet privileged congregants and congregations where they are, protects White Lives from knowing about and caring about Black Lives.

It shields White Lives from knowing about and caring about -and- -rejecting- -in- -the- -name- -of- -the- -Gospel- the White System of Privilege which contributes to the injustice, poverty, inequity that Black Lives endure.

It buffers White Lives from knowing and caring about the names of people who have died at the hands of their White Privilege, that which congregations and congregants, under the rubric of meeting them where they are, have been led to believe affords them the luxury of not knowing, because the time is “just not right.”

“They’re just not ready for that yet.”

“We have to meet them where they are.”

In the complicated book of Hosea, Israel had forsaken God by falling into a cycle of normalized lying, and murder, and violence, such that even the land and sea and the creatures upon and in it suffered.

After a long enough period of waiting for this situation to turn around, God’s response, albeit conveyed in troubling metaphor, was finally to call Israel Lo-ammi: not my people.

Remember, of course, that we hear God say, “I am your God, and you shall be my people” in any number of texts, like Exodus 6:7; Leviticus 26:12, and Isaiah 5:15-16.

But no longer, says God.

What you have done, God says, is enough.

The relationship is severed.

And what had Israel done?

Among other sins, Israel had opted to align themselves not with God, but with Baalistic culture, which included a nasty habit of placing economic success for the few at the expense of the many, and of the land.

So God abandoned Israel to its enemies, and to the consequences of their unfaithfulness.

Note that it was -they- and -their- actions which terminated the relationship; -not- God.

God did not decide against them.

The ones formerly known as the people of God decided -against- God, and -for- other gods.

It’s possible that in the same way, now, in our streets we are seeing the consequences of -our- unfaithfulness.

We have, of course, tolerated a corrupt, malicious, and weak-spirited president, and political leaders who abide, aid, and abet him, and the agendas which they push at the expense of others.

Some Christians have even voted for them.

But we have also aligned ourselves with other gods, including those in the headlines of recent days, most especially that of White Privilege.

And we as rostered leaders have all too often opted to align ourselves with the god of Meeting People Where They Are, which has enabled and unleashed many an evil thing at the now normalized expense of People Who Are Not Where They Should Be.

So back to Hosea, it turns out that God’s disassociation from Israel was temporary—not inconsequential, but not permanent.

God opted, and even in the very next verse of this judgment, to make us God’s people again.

The message of Hosea is of judgment, but judgment that sends us into a way of repentance -and- -then- -restoration.-

The ironic thing is that the same phrase which has allowed rostered leaders to dance around dicey subjects can in fact throw them right into the whirl of it all:

Meet your people where they are.

If you’re the leader of a white congregation, that’d generally be a life of white privilege at the expense of black lives which do, in fact, matter.

So go ahead.

Meet them where they are.

And when you do, meeting them where they -really- are as opposed to where they -think- they are, you help lead your people into repentance, you announce the possibility of restoration to -all- the People of God, and you help bring -all- the People of God to where everyone ought to be.

That’s embarrassing: three of the highest holy days of the Church, I’m a theologian of the Church, annnnnnnnd…..I didn’t get a blog done.

Turns out that the legs of my son Karl, who has a TBI, are acting up.

Happened in January, too. Then, the trouble stretched over two interminable weeks.

Gosh, I hope that we aren’t entering into a repeat of that: this poor boy, his legs bicycle, intensely springing up and down, and almost constantly, day and night.  Poor kid hasn’t had any sleep to speak of for the last two nights.

We don’t know why it happens, and we don’t know why it stops, but we do know that it’s all related to the brain injury of nigh upon 16 years ago.

When I asked Karl how he felt about this whole matter, and named a variety of possible emotions, Karl, normally happy, content, never one to want to cause concern, said, for the first time about anything near as I recall, “mad.”

Low. Whistle.

And who wouldn’t be?

I’m mad too. This son of mine suffers every day the unwelcome effects of a trauma he incurred by absolutely no fault of his own.

And I’m sad.  I’m sad that the three of us had been so looking forward to making our Easter feast—it’s one of our favorite family bonding times—and instead, I’m in the bedroom with my boy, trying to calm his poor legs down and help him rest, and my girl is in the kitchen, making our meal alone.

I’ve been through way worse.

Others have been through way worse.

But man, still and even so, it’s just not right, on so many levels, and we are beyond ready for a TBI cure.

~~~~~

In the seminary class I’m teaching on the Lutheran Confessions, we got to talking on Maundy Thursday about ‘atonement’ theories, the fancy name for the different, what…reasons…why Jesus died on the cross.

Traditionally, there are about three that are most often floated around, and naturally have labels: the Classic Theory, the Substitionary Theory, and the Subjective Theory.

In the Classic form, Jesus is considered to be a victor over death. It’s very dualistic, very bad vs. good, very Satan vs. God, and often very violent. It’s a way of thinking about the cross that informed C.S. Lewis’ notion of the White Witch and Aslan, and the Deep Magic and the Deeper Magic.

Jesus is Aslan, so to speak, who on behalf of the enslaved, in-bondaged humans, fights the good fight, and ultimately vanquishes the enemy and saves humanity.

It’s not like there aren’t Scriptural texts for it: Genesis 3, the tale of the servant who taught Eve and Adam the difference between good and evil, and tore their allegiance from God; John 8, especially verse 44, in which Jesus says that he is from the Father, but that our father is the Devil, for we do our father’s bidding, and not his; and Hebrews 2:14-18, in which the author tells of how we share flesh and blood with Jesus, who on our behalf destroyed the devil and thereby freed us.

The Easter human “Welcome, Happy Morning” expresses this theology: “…Hell today is vanquished, heav’n is won today….” and “Source of all things living, you came down to die, Plummed the depths of hell to raise us up on high….Died as a mortal man to save us by your love…” and “Free the souls long prisoned, bound with Satan’s chai; All that once had fallen raise to life again….”

For that matter, so is “A Mighty Fortress.” “He breaks the cruel oppressors rod, and wins salvation glorious…” and “No strength of ours can match his might! We would be lost, rejected.  But now a champion comes to fight, Whom God himself elected, You ask who this may be? The Lord of hosts is he! Christ Jesus mighty Lord, God’s only Son, adored. He holds the field victorious.”

So, as we’ll find in all of these forms of atonement theories, there’s scriptural tradition, and there’s historical tradition. But there are also problems afoot.

For example, we really don’t need to do anything but watch the battle from the sidelines.  We can be grateful to the vanquisher, because without him we’d still be the vanquished, but still, the change was made outside of ourselves, rather than within us.

Too, given that, we really have no motivation to change. “The Devil made me do it” cuts it, in this model.

So there’s neither much motivation to make structural and personal changes, nor, as far as that goes, much reason to form a framework of ethics.

Jesus’ got this one, and therefore we don’t have to.

But wait!

There’s more.

There’s the Substitutionary model too.

We might know this approach musically best as “Ah, Holy Jesus.” The folks at Live From Here did a beautiful rendition of it, which you can find here.

“Ah, holy Jesus, how hast though offended/That man to judge thee hath in hate pretended?” “Who was the guilty? Who brought this upon thee? Alas, my treason, Jesus, hath undone thee/‘Twas I, Lord Jesus/ I it was denied the/I crucified thee.” “Lo, the Good Shepherd for the sheep is offered. The slave that sinned/and the Son hath suffered/For man’s atonement/while he nothing heedeth/God intercedeth.” “For me, kind Jesus, was thine incarnation/Thy mortal sorrow/and thy life’s oblation/Thy death of anguish/and thy bitter Passion/For my salvation.”

Roots for it are everywhere in Scripture. Mark 10:45, “For the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many;” 1 Timothy 2:5-6 “For there is one God; there is also one mediator between God and humankind, Christ Jesus, himself human, who gave himself a ransom for all…” Revelation 5:9, ““You are worthy to take the scroll and to open its seals, for you were slaughtered and by your blood you ransomed for God saints from every tribe and language and people and nation,” and that’s just for starters.

An infraction has occurred, and a price has to be paid.

It’s our fault, but Jesus takes one for the human team. (Here also Aslan can be a reference). For this reason, it is called the Substitutionary Model, because Jesus, pure and sinless, is substituted for sinful people.

It’s arguably the theological bent that has made the cross such an element of the faith of Christians, over against that of Easter: we are so horrible, Jesus is so pure, Jesus sacrificed himself for us, and we are (literally) undyingly grateful.

But it’s got troubles too:

God the Father (always the Father—I do believe we’d realize a bit more quickly the troubling elements of this approach if our primary notion of God were as Mother) is nothing but an angry executioner, appeased only by righteous blood. We have every reason to still live in fear, because that sort of divine being already has the street creds for capricious decisions.

Too, sin is nothing but immorality, and makes the reconciliation of it violence rather than mercy born out of love.

And again, because the change took place this time in God (rather than the devil), we don’t have reason to change, to do anything else.

It’s been done.

And last, the Subjective Theory of Atonement.

This framework has a different spin on matters, for here, the goal of Jesus’ death on the cross is that we are changed.

“When I Survey the Wondrous Cross” is thoroughly grounded in this approach: “When I survey the wondrous cross/On which the prince of glory died/My richest gain I county but loss/And pour contempt on all my pride.” And “Forbid it Lord that I should boast/Save in the death of Christ, my God/ All the vain things that charm me most/I sacrifice them to his blood.” And “Were the whole realm of nature mine/That were a tribute far too small/Love so amazing so divine/Demands my soul, my life, my all.”

You can surely find textual basis for it in Scripture: John 13:15 says, “For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you,” and 1 Peter 2:21 “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.”

Here, Jesus is a teacher, and we are the students.  We most of all have to learn to love. We have to learn because we are sinful, and weak, and thick-headed.  Jesus loves God this much, and so should we.

But while more liberal theology is more comfortable with some elements of this take on the cross, it is ultimately insufficient, just as the two prior atonement theories are.

Here, we are reduced to being blockheads.

The depth of sinfulness, therefore, is not just relativized, but is rejected.

So, all of these approaches: Classic, Substitutionary, and Subjective, have truth, and none of them quite do the trick, and none of them entirely quite tell my son whose legs are tremoring or my daughter who is in the kitchen by herself what the cross has to say to them.

~~~~~

I’m not audacious enough to say that I have it all figured out.

I definitely don’t have it all figured out.

But there are a couple of things that have bugged me about these three approaches, these three takes on the cross that get, in one form or another, or in a Venn-diagram-esque-y way, the bulk of attention in the life of faith.

All of them have to do with sin.

None of them have to do with my boy’s legs.

None of them have to do with my girl’s default love and default sacrifices for her brother.

None of them have to do with the immeasurable grief at the deaths of thousands of people who died because of accidents, of cancers, of Coronovirus.

None of them have to do with the starvation and the desperation of those utterly at the mercy of robber barons and base politicians and the voters who are down with it all.

None of them have to do with those suffering from depression, bi-polar, alcoholism, abuse, or prejudice.

These theories speak to sin, and only to sin.

But here’s the thing: there is suffering to be had, injustice to be had, victims of sin to be had, and sweet Jesus the cross must have something to say to them!

It must have something to say to my son.

And it must have something to say to my daughter, who rather than making a meal with her mama has been (and ever so gladly, for which I am so grateful) helping her brother by stretching his legs, by rubbing cream on his skin, by sleeping downstairs in case I need her in the night, and by readying for Easter in the kitchen alone while I sit with my spasmodic boy.

~~~~~

To write this blog, I flipped to my old, old systematic lectures, written by Walt B.

In them, he teased out all of these atonement theories, more or less as I have above.

At first, his lecture notes didn’t seem to notice this pesky detail, though, this piece that each of these theories, while decidedly different, reduce the cross just various ways of thinking through forgiveness.

That they speak to the sinners, but not to those sinned upon, nor to the sufferers.

That they don’t speak to the why of forsakenness felt not just by Jesus, but by people still, every damn day.

But then I came across these points, three of them, all under his Point D: The Cross of Jesus is something that happens to the world. He wrote:

1. The world—all of humanity—crucified the Messiah: religion and politics, Jew and Gentile, enemies and disciples, men—women—children.

2. Jesus’ death on the cross calls the whole world into question.  Jesus is, in some sense, vindicated in the resurrection.  But the unmasking of false gods is in the dying.  “Pilate and Herod are revealed” (Gollwitzer). The world is revealed as “old alone” IN the death of Jesus its oldness—its way of death-dealing in order to cling to the illusion of power—is revealed. The old has passed away; it has come to an end (II Cor. 5:17).

3. In the death of Jesus God has made a final and irrevocable decision about the world. He will not abandon the world.  He will not give up on the world.  Atonement means that the world has been changed by God’s identification with it in the depths of its oldness.

That, all three of those points, that helped me, as I sit in this bed mid-afternoon, my legs wrapped around my son’s, trying to press the tremoring muscle groups with my toes and knees, and by knotting his legs around mine in hopes that this odd position will perhaps break the tone.

At the very least, perhaps after two sleepless nights, he’ll rest?

But these points reminded me that God did not kill Jesus: we did with our quests for power and our fear of its loss; our hubris and our anxious unwillingness to transform hope into a new way of being.

I was reminded that death can come naturally or it can come with violence—and one doesn’t even need to lose one’s breath for this to be so.

And I was reminded of how easy it is to make despair the god, the thing I trust most.

I was reminded that death is real, and that God entered into it.

And I was reminded that the way of God is not the way of the world: We crucify. God raises up.

So as I sit here with my boy, yet one more twist of my ankle to help untwist his, all the while listening to my girl clatter away in the kitchen making the meal that we had so looked forward to cooking together today, I am reminded that that’s exactly what Holy Saturday is about.

Death is real.

God must not just know that, but enter into that, for I need God to ache with me as my son’s TBI-born muscle spasms tremor into my own heart, and I need God to ache with me as that same heart reaches to my girl in the kitchen around the corner.

And I know that my son’s tremors and my daughter’s loss once again of mama-daughter time is someone else’s virtual farewell because of COVID, someone else’s inability to access water to cleanse their hands, someone else’s frightened self behind a locked closet door of a raging abuser, someone else’s despair at being alone.

The cross must speak to that.

But there must, there must, be more to the story than that.

We can’t make sense of the cross if we don’t hold out hope for that.

If there isn’t reason to hold out hope for that.

If there isn’t the possibility that perhaps, though death is real, life is real-er.

Below is both the text and the audio of the sermon I preached at my home congregation last Sunday: you can hear the sermon (with the gospel reading first) via the audio link here.

In it, I fussed a bit with how dangerous it is to speak unwelcome truth, how anger can be holy and righteous, how walls are neither holy nor righteous, how love may mean being angry and leaving someone behind, and how although we might want to think twice about inviting Jesus to our dinner parties, he invites us to his, every Sunday, even though he’s probably angry with us, in spite of and because of his deep love for us, for all of us.

One-stop shopping for a mess of matters of faith, really.

The texts for the day included Jeremiah 1:4-10, Psalm 71:1-6, I Corinthians 13:1-13, and Luke 4:21-30, found below.

(A huge thank you to Doug Maguire, the Computer Man of Duluth, not only for managing the video streaming of the services at Gloria Dei Lutheran, but for spending his precious time excerpting the text and sermon above! Grateful!)

_____

Luke 4:21-30

When he came to Nazareth, where he had been brought up, he went to the synagogue on the sabbath day, as was his custom. He stood up to read, and the scroll of the prophet Isaiah was given to him. He unrolled the scroll and found the place where it was written: 

‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,

because he has anointed me

to bring good news to the poor.

He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives

and recovery of sight to the blind,

to let the oppressed go free, 

to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour.’ 

And he rolled up the scroll, gave it back to the attendant, and sat down. The eyes of all in the synagogue were fixed on him. 21Then [Jesus] began to say to [all in the synagogue in Nazareth,] “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” 22All spoke well of him and were amazed at the gracious words that came from his mouth. They said, “Is not this Joseph’s son?” 23He said to them, “Doubtless you will quote to me this proverb, ‘Doctor, cure yourself!’ And you will say, ‘Do here also in your hometown the things that we have heard you did at Capernaum.’ ” 24And he said, “Truly I tell you, no prophet is accepted in the prophet’s hometown. 25But the truth is, there were many widows in Israel in the time of Elijah, when the heaven was shut up three years and six months, and there was a severe famine over all the land; 26yet Elijah was sent to none of them except to a widow at Zarephath in Sidon. 27There were also many lepers in Israel in the time of the prophet Elisha, and none of them was cleansed except Naaman the Syrian.” 28When they heard this, all in the synagogue were filled with rage. 29They got up, drove him out of the town, and led him to the brow of the hill on which their town was built, so that they might hurl him off the cliff. 30But he passed through the midst of them and went on his way.

—————

Grace to you and peace from our risen Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

So the last Sunday that I stood in this pulpit, it was because Pr. Carlson had a wedding commitment that, happily for him, fell on Trinity Sunday, because no pastor wants to preach on Trinity Sunday, because nobody really gets the Trinity anyway.

This Sunday he’s gone again, and I stand in this pulpit again, and this time the texts largely have to do with people being called by God to preach dicey words, and for their faithful troubles right after that having to hide in rocks or almost ending up themselves being chucked off of them and in related news my van is already running and ready to go.

I’m detecting a trend, here, sisters and brothers of Gloria Dei.

So.

Unless a person has some large vats and water at the ready for a quick H2O-to-super-good-wine number, I’m not so sure that it’s the best idea ever, depending on the vibe you’re looking for, to invite Jesus to your dinner party. 

Pictures of Jesus laughing broadly, hymns about him ever so meek and mild, these probably true and notwithstanding in their own right and way, but let’s be clear: the guy could also be a real kill-joy.

We tend to want to romanticize him, spiritualize him, domesticate him, but in point of fact, Jesus was often untamed, unpredictable, and, occasionally uncouth.

Take our text from today. You’ll notice that I read the verses before those ‘officially’ included in the readings for this morning; I did, because without knowing the lay-up, it’s impossible to understand what got everybody all riled up. 

So Jesus shows up in his hometown, Nazareth.  

This is, by the way, the same Nazareth about which we hear in the gospel of John, when Philip announced to Nathanael that they had discovered the Messiah who had been long expected, and Nathanael said, fairly untactfully, gotta say, “Can anything good come from Nazareth?”

It’s not that Nazareth was necessarily a bad town, one that might call up Mos Eisely-like images, the “”wretched hive of scum and villainy” where Obi Wan, Luke, Han Solo and Chewbacca met up for the first time. 

Nope. 

Nazareth was just…tiny.  Humble.  Were it to be around today, you might just see right on its outskirts proud signs the likes of which you see in communities where famous politicians, sports people, or actors grew up: “Nazareth: Proud Home of Jesus the Christ!”

So here’s Jesus, just having been baptized, just having been badgered by Satan in the desert, and just having inaugurated his public ministry in Galilee, and now he makes a stop in his hometown Nazareth.

And because rabbis are going to rabbi, he went to the synagogue, as, we hear was his custom, and he reads these words from Isaiah, words that at the same time anchor Jesus both to the communally shared past and the communally shared present moment:

‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,

because he has anointed me

to bring good news to the poor.

He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives

and recovery of sight to the blind,

to let the oppressed go free, 

to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.’ 

And we get a sense, not from anything explicit in the text, but rather because of the hinted mood created by Luke’s retelling, that Jesus read this Scripture, silence all around as people listened to his voice, and he sat down, the silence still echoing in the room, people leaning in to hear what teaching would come next, and then came this:  “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”

In short, implies Jesus, I’m the guy. I’m the One who is ushering all that this text promises.  The one you knew as a child who slipped from his parents for a few days in Jerusalem at Passover, the one you knew who pounded nails for your steps and your fences, that one now is God’s anointed one. 

So imagine the thrill of those gathered: amazed not only because they could say, “I knew him when,” but also because they began to collectively wonder whether the One for whom generations had waited was right, right there.

So, because elders gonna elder, Luke tells us, “All spoke well of him and were amazed at the gracious words that came from his mouth. They said, ‘Is not this Joseph’s son?’”

You can almost hear the proud clucking.  “He did so well! A remarkable young man! Why, I recall when he was just knee-high to a locust.” 

Now, it’s not quite clear why the “Is not this Joseph’s son” question is asked. 

Lots of theories here: maybe it falls under the clucking-rubric, a proud repetition of what everyone knew, as in “Is not this Joseph’s son;” maybe it was because some people felt that Jesus was getting a little too proud himself, and they wanted to bring him down a few notches, as in, “Is this not Joseph’s son?” or maybe Luke mentions it ironically: technically he wasn’t, actually, Joseph’s son, which is precisely the point of what Jesus was trying to say.

Still, you get this important sense: Jesus came back to his home town and home worshipping community, he preached, and people were proud and glad.

So what does Jesus do? 

Say, “Aw shucks, thanks?” Say, “I couldn’t have done it with out Mom and Dad” and so forth?

Nope.

Instead, he picks a fight. 

He up and picks a fight, yes he does, right there for God and all to see.

Out of nowhere and straight away, he hauls off and sneers: “Doubtless you will quote to me this proverb, ‘Doctor, cure yourself!’ And you will say, ‘Do here also in your hometown the things that we have heard you did at Capernaum.’ ” And he said, “Truly I tell you, no prophet is accepted in the prophet’s hometown.” 

Look at the text! It’s right there and sheesh.

Where did that come from?  On what wrong side of how many beds did he get up on?

Here these people were doing nothing other than go to synagogue, be pleased to have the hometown boy make good in their presence, praise him…and what do they get in return? Slams, smears, and huffy insults. 

Except he wasn’t being merely cross, terse, and bad-tempered. 

Rather, it seems like it wasn’t just the locals who knew Jesus well.  

Instead, it seems as if Jesus knew the locals well right on back.

And it seems as if he could sense that they were expecting a little extra something from him, a holy bonus, if you will.  

Because he came from them, because he was one of them, they should probably get some special attention from the hometown boy, right?

Wrong, said Jesus. 

Dipping into more scripture—scripture with which they were all familiar, which they all knew—Jesus reminds them of two times when a prophet decidedly did not give preferential treatment to the locals, but instead, decidedly offered it to the outcasts, to the foreigners, to the “they’re not from around here’s” instead.

The ones who consistently get special treatment from God are, as Fr. Robert Farrar Capon said, the last, least, lost, little, and dead.

So….upshot; neither Isaiah nor Jesus went down so great that day.

What we’d like to have happen next, I think, is that people go, “OHHhhhhhh. We get it. Sorry! Tell us more!” And then Jesus sticks around, has conversation that further illuminates their minds and their hearts, and a few loaves and fishes turn into bushelfuls to show it’s all good and all wine under the bridge.

Instead, the people become enraged.  

That is a powerful word: Luke says that “they were filled with rage,” and decide that the best course of action is to hurl him from the cliffs to off him.

This, by the way, is the same him whom they were lauding a moment before, when they thought he was who they thought he was, instead of who he is, namely a truth-teller who ticks people off when the truth cuts close.

Recognizing that not only is he not welcome anymore in his hometown (pretty much proving his words right about prophets as he spoke them), he also realized that no good was going to come from either preaching the truth or seeking reconciliation.  

Instead, he leaves them to speak elsewhere truth, to change hearts and minds, of those who instead might have the ears to hear and the hearts to change. 

He…up and left. Not once, not once do you 1 Cor 13-esque patience or kindness, but instead you see even Jesus naming some truths, riling people up, evaluating the situation, and throwing up his hands and leaving.

Some people can’t cope with truth. They flare, they attack, and there is nothing doing to change their minds, at least in the moment.  The best and only thing to do is to leave.

Several additional things to note:

The words that the people from Nazareth initially liked were these: the poor would be encouraged, the captives would be released, the blind would see, the oppressed would be free. 

Theoretically, we’re down with that, they said.

Sometime when there is pie in the sky pie and by, we are so in. 

But it was the implication of these words that they didn’t like: that actually means that you have to change your economies, your systems, your assumptions, your ways of being, your hearts…now.  “Today this Scripture has been fulfilled.” 

Truthfully, this good news might not feel so good for those who have it good now.

But for those who do not, this news is good, today.

For everyone, though, it is ultimately good news, that fairness, equity, and justice are restored for all. 

Directly related here is another thing these folks didn’t like to hear so very much: God apparently has no time for boundaries, for barriers, for human-constructed walls of any sort that seek to portion off God’s welcome and well-being. 

Nobody is privvied in God’s reign, except the last, lost, least, little, broken, and dead, no matter their nationality, skin color, desperation, gender or gender identification, sexuality, and wealth bracket. 

If you build a wall, if you say that these people are in and these people are out, turns out that God is actually with those on the other side of your arbitrary, heinous boundary, Jesus said.  

These folks didn’t like that, so very much.

It made them mad, which is precisely what seems to wash over this entire text: anger. 

It’s a five-letter word that in Christians circles could just as well be a four-letter word but here it is all front-and-center-y: Jesus and the people of Nazareth are flared-nose angry.

 Jesus is angry because the people do not understand his words, don’t want to, and actively refuse to.

The people are angry because, in fact, they actually do understand his words, annnnnd don’t want to, and actively refuse to.

We Christians? We don’t really know what to do with anger.

Nobody likes it, of course, anger: being angry or being the recipient of it.

We’d much rather be all about 1 Corinthians 13, right? Love, patience, kindness, and the like.

Goes far better with water and wine. 

But the hard truth, though, is that sometimes anger is not just necessary; it is the only thing called for in a situation.

It’s righteous. It’s holy. It’s aligned with God.

Truth is, I can’t decide whether the committee that opted to lump this text from Luke with this text from 1 Cor. was malevolent or inspired.  

We love love, and love talking about love more than talking about anger, and we sure as heck like being loving more than being angry, but here’s the thing: Jesus was angry with the people of Nazareth because he loved them and because he loved those who were being excluded by them.

If he hadn’t loved them, he wouldn’t have cared a whit!

But he did! 

He loved them so much that he was not just snarky, but ticked, and cared enough to name an unwelcome truth!

Anger can, you see, in fact, be an expression of love. 

I’m not talking, of course, about abusive anger, or petulant anger, or petty passive-aggressive-unwilling-to-hear-truth anger. 

I’m talking about anger that is aligned to a holy intention, anger that is aligned to righteousness, anger that reacts to a threat to God’s way in the world, which is whenever life is threatened by death, hope by despair, truth by lie, welcome by isolation, freedom by captivity, love by hate.

Kindness, patience, and gentleness at the expense of expressing righteous indignation is kindness, patience, and gentleness extended only to those doing the oppressing.

Too, in abusive relationships—personal, professional, or communal—kindness, patience, and all-too-quick forgiveness enables the harm to continue. 

The harm gets a pass, and, as a result, the harmed can’t pass through it.

Yesterday I reposted a blog I wrote a couple of years ago about the Danish playwright, pastor, and martyr Kaj Munk: it’s a deeply personal blog, as Munk was a friend of my father’s uncle, assassinated in the deep of the night by the Gestapo for his words against the Nazi regime and agenda. 

Munk’s words caught my attention again as I prepared this sermon, because he reflected on the words from this beloved text of 1 Cor 13. 

He said this: 

“What is, therefore, our task today? Shall I answer: ‘Faith, hope, and love?’ That sounds beautiful. But I would say–courage. No, even that is not challenging enough to be the whole truth. Our task today is recklessness. For what we Christians lack is not psychology or literature…we lack a holy rage–the recklessness which comes from the knowledge of God and humanity. The ability to rage when justice lies prostrate on the streets, and when the lie rages across the face of the earth…a holy anger about the things that are wrong in the world. To rage against the ravaging of God’s earth, and the destruction of God’s world. To rage when little children must die of hunger, when the tables of the rich are sagging with food. To rage at the senseless killing of so many, and against the madness of militaries. To rage at the lie that calls the threat of death and the strategy of destruction peace. To rage against complacency. To restlessly seek that recklessness that will challenge and seek to change human history until it conforms to the norms of the Kingdom of God. And remember the signs of the Christian Church have been the Lion, the Lamb, the Dove, and the Fish…but never the chameleon.”

A holy rage, I think Munk was saying, in part, comes precisely out of faith, and hope, and love.  

Mulling this text then, I mused this:

The recklessness of which Munk spoke is not recklessness that is self-serving, that is hateful or spiteful or violent or mean-spirited.

It is recklessness that speaks the Word, hears the Word, and then acts on the Word, regardless of the cost.

It is recklessness that refuses to be tamped down by fears, by avoidance of conflict, by ducking the facts of injustice and suffering, by questions about timing or process or appropriateness.

It is a holy rage, a righteously indignant fury that we would feel if our own children were hungering, if our own children were taken from us at the border, if our own water were polluted, if our own children were shot for the color of their skin, if our own religious group were profiled, if our own parents were sleeping in boxes, if our own families were denied health insurance, if our own loved ones were rejected, scorned, maligned, threatened, killed.

The holy rage manifests itself in Word and Action that names wrongs, that speaks truth, that protests, that changes, that repudiates, that calls out injustice, that works to change oppressive systems, that stands up to manifest death and fear and embraces manifest faith, hope, love, and life.

What we see, here, in the text from Luke is the conflict between self-serving anger and anger that is generated because we are called to serve another, even at the expense of ourselves. 

The other night, I was invited to a couple’s home where most every Friday night a group of them get together: this small clan has been gathering for thirty-some years.

I don’t get out much, and so it was a kick to be invited, but, as I said to the hosts later, the three most elemental things about me are exactly the three elemental things that nobody is supposed to talk about at a dinner party: religion, politics, and family trauma!

Add a knack for righteous indignation, and it’s no wonder I don’t get asked often to dinner parties!

At least I brought the fixings for a Manhattan; no substitute surely for the sort of wine that Jesus could call up, but still. 

I’m no Jesus, but for the same reasons he too might not be the sort one wants to invite to pull up the chair: religion, politics, family trauma, and a habit of some really, really righteous indignation.

But at one level, that’s ok.

It’s ok, because Jesus has invited us to his dinner party—even though we tick him off, and on a regular basis.

Nonetheless, he keeps sending out these invitations, and here we are, here we keep coming, yet again about to make our way to his table. 

It’s a table where all are welcome; no really, all. 

It’s a table where we are fed, not least of all so that we can leave the table to do the work of Jesus.

That work includes the very work that annoyed the folks from Nazareth so: bringing good news to the poor, proclaiming release to the captives, recovery of sight to the blind, letting the oppressed go free, and proclaiming the year of the Lord’s favor, all of which make no mistake still tick people off mightily, especially those with the most to lose when these things come to pass.  

See, we call Jesus the Christ because he didn’t stay dead. 

We call ourselves Christ-ians because we believe that Jesus didn’t stay dead.

We act on behalf of Christ when we see death insisting on its way and we know that there is another way.

Sometimes, sometimes, sometimes it means that anger is called for: Not retributive anger, not mean-spirited anger, but holy and righteous anger that says I will not be afraid of death, I will announce life, and I will be its ambassador too….though I may or may not keep the van running while I’m doing the Lord’s work.

For in the name of this Lord we are called to love all people, which can mean getting angry with people, which, paradoxically, might exactly be the good news you need to speak and they need to hear, today.

Amen

______

Consider coming to the Spent Dandelion Theological Retreat Center not only for personal retreats and continuing education opportunities, but also for group retreats throughout the year.  Find out more here!

No one can be objective about their own theology.

I like it.

(If I could attribute it, I would; I’m a complete schmuck to have neither bookmarked the post nor followed the post-er.)

The point of the line, though, is that our theology, namely the way we look at God, at our faith, and what difference our take on each affects our life, is deeply personal.

Evaluating it critically can be a bit like evaluating our own children: those other kids are very cute, adorable even, and certainly smart, and can obviously catch a mean ball, and their manners are quite good.

Of course my child rises above their good efforts, but these other youth do just fine, just fine…

But almost a decade back, I started up OMG: Center for Theological Conversation, because through Life Experiences—some welcome, some not—I realized that every system, namely every way of thinking about God has its foibles, and more starkly, its failings.

But still, one can’t say nothing about God.

Something needs to be said, and, it turns out, some things can be said: perhaps not with certainty, perhaps not with complete clarity, but with integrity, and with basis, and with a funky mix of knowledge, chutzpah, and hunch.

Through OMG, I hope to give people a place and an opportunity to wander through one’s theology, to wonder about it, to be called-out by it, to reacquaint, rediscover, and rejoice in it…and perhaps even safely say to someone, “I like my kid…but I can’t help but notice that that other one over there is awfully great…and I might even like it better than my own…maybe I can adopt?”

Whether it be for an hour in-person conversation where I live, or at a local coffee shop, or via video conferenceing or old-fashioned phone, I’m happy to visit with you—and, as I’ve done on several occasions with other OMG-ers, with your partner, or that absolutely wonderful child of yours—to help you identify what you believe, why you believe it, and what difference it makes.

I also work with congregations, both by way of leadership and large groups, to hone the community’s grasp of God in the immediate context, and how that can be lived out in life together.

If you’d like a large-group speaker to address an element of theology, or to help raise some questions, or to facilitate some conversation about a particular facet of faith, ring me up.

In the next few months alone, for example, I’m presenting to a lay retreat in Canada, a theological conference in Pennsylvania, a clergy gathering with the UCC tradition (I even speak non-Lutheran!) in southern Minnesota, and a Saturday congregational adult education event followed by Sunday preaching in Toledo, Ohio.

Have thoughts, that is, I will travel!

The Spent Dandelion Theological Retreat Center offers similar opportunities for reflection, but here at our beloved North Shore home.

Come any season (yes, even during winter!) for a personal retreat: individual, with a friend or beloved, or perhaps even with your family.

Enjoy the fully-furnished studio overlooking the woods, the trails through our 20 acres of forest, and the natural beauty and art galleries and restaurants along the shore. Write, think, grab one of the thousands of books off my library shelves, and then spend an hour with me to sort it all out.

Consider either OMG or the Spent Dandelion as an opportunity for continuing education or sabbatical for clergy, church, or synodical staff, as a personal retreat, or as a gift for someone who could simply benefit from a bit of re-centering quiet and conversation.

Look up OMG and my services through it here, and poke around at the beauty and offerings of the Spent Dandelion, not to mention book a stay, here.

No one can be objective about their own theology…or one’s own vocation.

But blantently subjectively speaking, I do believe that you and/or your group will find the time spent in conversation and/or retreat through OMG or the Spent Dandelion to be re-orienting, refreshing, and renewing.

All are welcome here.

I hope to welcome you here too.

No one who knows me or has read my blog will be surprised that I am not happy about it, not one little bit.

In the name of my faith, I stand at the ready to oppose him wherever I find him offending the Christian gospel of care and concern for the Least of These, the oppressed, and creation, not to mention him denigrating, debasing, and dismissing basic expressions of human decency and democracy.

Given what we know of Trump, I’m sure hoping that my well of oppositional water is deep.

Turns out, though, that if my personal reservoir runs out, I’m not exactly going to need to be in the market for a dowsing rod: there’s a veritable deluge of concern and outright indignation about Donald Trump across the religious spectrum.

Springs are popping up everywhere.

In no particular order, a running short list of conservative and liberal religious bodies, theologians, pastors, and laity who vehemently oppose Trump, Trump’s agenda, and his nominees:

1. The National Council of Churches (comprising and representing the African Methodist Episcopal Church, African Methodist Episcopal Zion Church, the Alliance of Baptists, the American Baptist Churches USA, the Diocese of the Armenian Church of America, the Assyrian Church of the East, the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ), the Christian Methodist Episcopal Church, the Church of the Brethren, the Community of Christ, the Coptic Orthodox Church in North America, the Ecumenical Catholic Communion, the Episcopal Church in the United States of America, the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, the Friends United Meeting, the Greek Orthodox Archdiocese of America, the Hungarian Reformed Church in America, the International Council of Community Churches, the Korean Presbyterian Church in America, the Malankara Orthodox Syrian Church, the Mar Thoma Church, the Moravian Church in America Northern Province and Southern Province, the National Baptist Convention of America, the National Baptist Convention, USA, Inc., the National Missionary Baptist Convention of America, the Orthodox Church in America, the Patriarchal Parishes of the Russian Orthodox Church in the USA, the Philadelphia Yearly Meeting of the Religious Society of Friends, the Polish National Catholic Church, the Presbyterian Church (USA) (of whom Trump ostensibly claims as his denomination), the Progressive National Baptist Convention, Inc., the Reformed Church in America, the Serbian Orthodox Church in the USA and Canada, the Swedenborgian Church of North America, the Syrian Orthodox Church of Antioch, the Ukrainian Orthodox Church of the USA, the United Church of Christ, and the United Methodist Church)
2. The Religious Action Center of Reform Judaism
3. The conservative Christian Post (in an article which calls Trump a “scam,”)
4. Jewish historians
5. Baptist theologians
6. ELCA Lutheran pastors and congregations
7. Lutheran and Jewish teaching theologians
8. Diverse faith communities who welcome immigrants
9. Evangelical leaders
10. Conservative Christians
11. Roman Catholics
12. African Methodist Episcopal Council of Bishops

As I posted on my personal FB page, although I was recently called a religious nutcase for my blog on Trump, I am proud to be even a small peanut in the same bowl as these many people of faith…with whom, wonderfully, I might otherwise disagree about any number of matters!

Donald Trump has at least this to his credit: ambassador of ecumenical and inter-religious agreement.

Religious people realize that Donald Trump’s inauguration has implications, profound implications, for people of faith.

Even the word ‘inauguration,’ it seems, is a sign of the role of religion at hand, for the word “inauguration” comes from the Latin term meaning not only ‘to install,’ but also ‘to consecrate.’

Well, that’s interesting.

Why? Because the word ‘consecrate‘ means to make holy: con-, ‘together,’ and sacrare, ‘to make sacred.’

But wait!  That’s not all.

One of my favorite websites is www.etmyonline.com (I look at it at least once a week–just ask my children, who hear the phrase, “Well, the etymology of that word is…” almost as often as “I love you more than you can possibly know!”).

Under the search for “inauguration,” the site offers this quote:

INAUGURATIO was in general the ceremony by which the augurs obtained, or endeavoured to obtain, the sanction of the gods to something which had been decreed by man [sic]; in particular, however, it was the ceremony by which things or persons were consecrated to the gods …. If the signs observed by the inaugurating priest were thought favourable, the decree of men [sic] had the sanction of the gods, and the inauguratio was completed. [William Smith (ed.), “Dictionary of Greek and Roman Antiquities,” 1842]

Upshot here is that in the ancient Greco-Roman world, a person attained office, and then was inaugurated.  However, during the ceremony a religious leader was appointed to watch for signs indicating whether the gods thought that the new authority were indeed the right pick.

This is why the word ‘inauguration’ became associated with ‘consecration,’ with, that is, making the event holy.

Personally, if I were the appointed religious leader on the 20th, given what we know of Trump, and given the wide dismay about him from religious leaders and laity alike, I’d be not a little nervous about being too close to potential incoming signs.

It is worth mentioning, however, that the religious leaders whom Trump requested to bless his inauguration are, well, not mainstream.  As NPR relates, these are pastors who preach the heretical Prosperity Gospel (wealth is good and a sign that one is blessed by God; poverty is a sign that you are not….I don’t think that these folks have read Amos or Luke much, for starters); who themselves live in million-dollar mansions (I bet Jesus lives right next door!); and who, conveniently, donated extensive dollars to Trump.

That critique aside, there is a passage in the New Testament that would seem to support the notion that Trump’s election is, indeed, holy, and blessed by God: Romans 13:1-4.

Let every person be subject to the governing authorities; for there is no authority except from God, and those authorities that exist have been instituted by God. Therefore whoever resists authority resists what God has appointed, and those who resist will incur judgment. For rulers are not a terror to good conduct, but to bad. Do you wish to have no fear of the authority? Then do what is good, and you will receive its approval; for it is God’s servant for your good. But if you do what is wrong, you should be afraid, for the authority does not bear the sword in vain! It is the servant of God to execute wrath on the wrongdoer.

Now, this is an interesting, perplexing set of verses.

They seem to operate exactly opposite of the Greco-Roman understanding of inauguration referenced above: there, the ruler was chosen and people waited to see if the gods approve, whereas here, if a person is in authority, they are by virtue of that position and by default approved by God.

Hmmm.

It’s worth noting that Nazi Germany, the South African Apartheid Government, and pro-slavery forces (as but three examples) have employed this text to justify acquiescence to governing authorities.

Left alone, any critical thinker (certainly anyone who reads Paul elsewhere) must wonder whether this text truly asks us to believe that dictators like Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot, Mugabe, or Mao are appointed by God, or whether policies set in effect by governments are necessarily divinely approved, like slavery, women’s lack of right to vote, and even the death penalty.

So maybe this text is an occasion for some worthy (not to mention timely) nuance.

Paul wasn’t exactly writing in a time of democracy.

As my family and I were talking about this text over supper last night, we started tongue-in-cheeking 1st Century Election Day news reports: “A donkey-jam as everyone is making their way to their local voting precinct stations.  Pay attention to your sundials, everyone, only a few more hours until the polls close.  Due to smeared chalk tallies, some are questioning the results–watch your toga sleeves, everyone!”

Paul’s message was less about acquiescing in the face of political oppression and injustice, and more about recognizing that society needs order, and that God’s will can work through government, and that when it does, we are to accede to it.

Lutherans in particular talk about this notion by way of the Two Kingdoms: Luther’s approach to talking about God’s involvement in the world by orchestrating systems by which we can live in secular community, and God’s involvement in the world by working in and through the life of faith and trust in the gospel of grace.

Still, the text from Paul raises questions, if not hackles.

The late German New Testament scholar Ernst Käsemann, a man who lived through Hitler’s Germany, spent no small time thinking about the implications–and the mis-implications–of this passage.

And here’s what he wrote in a twenty-page piece called, simply, “Principles of the Interpretation of Romans 13″ (for you German-readers, it is also found in Exegetsiche Versuche und Besinnungen: Zweiter Band, Zweiter Auflage, Grundsätzliches zur Interpretation von Römer 13,” (Göttingen Vendenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1965, 204-222).

“Is there anything which might rightly be called a limit to the obedience here being demanded of the Christian and, if so, where is it to be drawn?….The boundary of our service is the point at which we cease to acknowledge Christ as Lord of the world…This raises the problem of the possibility of Christian resistence to the existing political power; it raises, that is, the specific question of participation in revolution…Is there such a thing as participation in revolution as an authentication of the service of God in the world? When and where can this be possible–not merely for that citizen of a democratic community in the carrying out of his political responsibility, but for the man [sic] who being such a citizen, yet wills to be, and to remain, a Christian also? My own personal answer would be, that such a possibility could only exist when the possessors of political power are threatening and escorting in a radical way those ties which hold together a political community as a whole in bonds of mutual service. When it becomes impossible any longer to render whole-hearted service within the total context of a common life, but every concrete act of service within the individual’s province takes on the character of participation in a common self-destruction–and in my view this possibility became reality for every man [sic] with eyes to see in the Third Reich (at least after Stalingrad)–then it also becomes impossible to deny to the Christian his [sic] right as a citizen to take part in revolution. Christin obedience in everyday life takes its significance from the fact that we have both the duty and the privilege of service; for this reason, and in the same way, in the conditions of democracy, Christian obedience can and must end at the point where, because of the nature of the existing political authority, service, though still possibility as an act of the individual, is yet robbed of all meaning within the total context of the life of a given community.” Ernst Käsemann, New Testament Questions of Today: Study Edition (London: SCM Press, 214-216).

Well, even translated from the German, it’s a heady mouthful.

Here’s Käsemann’s basic gist: We are called to serve authorities as long as the authorities do not ask, as a fundamental element of their rule, a habitutal abdication of our calling and allegiance to God.

In fact, engaging in revolution can itself be an expression of faithful Christian service: think, for example, of the civil disobedience of Martin Luther King, Jr, and Rosa Parks; the resistence to the South African government of Nelson Mandela and Bp. Desmond Tutu; and Dorothy Day (though the list can go on and on).

Now, to return to Paul’s point, civil disobedience does not mean that we aren’t subject to the–often unjust–civil punishments.

But is that not what we are freed to do by the gospel, by the news that death doesn’t win?

Does that news not in fact rush us headlong into the headwinds?

Is it not so that the reality of suffering because of the implications of our faith is precisely what Jesus implied when he said, “Take up your cross and follow me?”

No act of faith is necessary for our salvation: grace trumps all–even Trump and his own acts of un-faith.

But as Gerhard Förde said, “Now that you don’t have to do anything to earn salvation, what are you going to do?”

And as Walter Bouman said, “Now that you know that death doesn’t have the last word, there is more to do with your lives than preserve it.”

The point both men were making is this: the news that Jesus is risen frees us to not be afraid of death, in whatever shape it might present itself in our lives.

Indeed, not least of all with Trump’s inauguration, freedom is, in fact, at stake, and brings us right back to that word “consecration.”

If to ‘consecrate’ means to make, or deem, something holy, what is it to be holy?

Let’s call up Paul again, this time in his letter to the Galatians.  In it, he wants to identify signs of the Spirit–the Holy Spirit (read more in this OMG blog about how the adjective before Spirit–like community, Christmas, school, mob, and, of course, Holy–helps us grasp the otherwise ghosty sense of Spirit).

That is, when we read the description of the Spirit below, we also read the description of what it is to be holy.

For you were called to freedom, brothers and sisters; only do not use your freedom as an opportunity for self-indulgence, but through love become slaves to one another. For the whole law is summed up in a single commandment, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” If, however, you bite and devour one another, take care that you are not consumed by one another. Live by the Spirit, I say, and do not gratify the desires of the flesh. For what the flesh desires is opposed to the Spirit, and what the Spirit desires is opposed to the flesh; for these are opposed to each other, to prevent you from doing what you want. But if you are led by the Spirit, you are not subject to the law. Now the works of the flesh are obvious: fornication, impurity, licentiousness, idolatry, sorcery, enmities, strife, jealousy, anger, quarrels, dissensions, factions, envy, drunkenness, carousing, and things like these. I am warning you, as I warned you before: those who do such things will not inherit the kingdom of God. By contrast, the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.

Let’s see: reference points for holiness are love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.

Hmmmm…gotta say, I’m not seeing a lot of Trump’s habitual character traits here.

How about the unholy, then?

“…fornication, impurity, licentiousness, idolatry, sorcery, enmities, strife, jealousy, anger, quarrels, dissensions, factions, envy, drunkenness, carousing, and things like these.”

Um….I don’t believe, given the topic at hand, that I have any commentary to add to that.

But I do have something more to add to how Paul begins this text: Christians are called to freedom.

This freedom is not about doing what we want.

It is, paradoxically, to be bound to only one thing, and it is not the governing authority–at least where that authority trespasses on the holy.

That can get dicey, and for the Church and faithful Christians, come Friday, it is about to get just that.

Ernst Käsemann again: “So long as we are not in heaven, the challenge of freedom is always controversial, a cause of vexation both to the Christian church and to ourselves.” Jesus Means Freedom (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1968, 9).

But here in the States, we live in this land we call the Land of the Free.

As US Citizens, we are free to engage in civil disobedience, and we are free to speak our minds, and we are free to vote people in…or out.

As Christians, we have those freedoms, and we have even more: we are freed to engage the risks of speaking truth to power in the name of our faith, and we are freed to directly address malevolent power in the name of Jesus, and we are freed to not be afraid, for the gospel tells us that death and fear do not win.

However, our freedoms are curtailed, more than others are: we are not free to engage in unrighteous anger and petty disputes.  We are not freed to lie to advance our cause. We are not free to hate or malign our neighbor; rather, we are called to love them.

Donald Trump, much as it might make me wince to say it, is, indeed, my neighbor.

I do not malign him when I call him out with truth, nor when I object to his policies which offend and harm the ones we are called to most protect.

In fact, much to his dismay, I honor him with these actions.

While that is true, I am moreso honoring my higher authority, the one whom (I hope) is the primary governing authority in my life.

That is, in the name of Jesus, out of my claim to be a Christian, and on behalf of all things holy, I will love Donald Trump–and this nation–enough to engage in necessary, regular, organized, committed, vigilant struggle against his presidency every single time his authority clamors for more respect than, presumes to be worthier than, insists on higher allegiance than the gospel.

Inauguration Day, then, has the potential to inaugurate a new way, a rededication, an invigorated way of faithful living for people of faith.

If such a renewal comes to pass, January 20th may, in fact, be a holy day after all.

I am writing a bit of an odd, and in many ways unfortunate, post, but one that has within it truly good news to share.

The good news is that on Monday, the Lake County Planning and Zoning Commission approved my request to create the Spent Dandelion Theological Retreat Center at my home in Two Harbors, MN!

I am so thrilled to be able to steward this beautiful place for others to come for quiet and rest and, of course, theological study and conversation.

My hopes are to get it up and running so that I can welcome people to come and stay in mid-to-late Spring, and when we are officially ready, I will be sure and post the news here!

Although the website is not yet ready, please feel free to look at, and even better yet like, and best of all share to encourage others to like the Spent Dandelion on FB https://m.facebook.com/SpentDandelion/ and Twitter @SpentDandelion.

That said, unfortunately, significant misinformation and, in fact, lies are being spread about my intentions for this place, and about me.

To that end, I wrote the below posts for FB.

However, since many people seem to be looking at my OMG blog, it seems prudent to post an entry with the clarifications here as well.

It is discouraging, to say the least, to be the recipient of false accusations.  The spirit that drives and is evident in them is even more discouraging, not to mention frightening.

However, I hope and trust that truth will out, and to that end, I offer the following rebuttals to the claims, along with the points in the broadcast where the initial mistruths were said.

Peace to you.

——————-

(Posted on Dec. 20th, 2016)

So, it’s a bit of a hard post to know how to write best.

Perhaps the first thing is to thank you for your support and curiosity about the approval process for the Spent Dandelion! It was, indeed, approved last night, for which I am incredibly grateful. I am so eager to create a quiet space for people to come and think, and write, and read, and visit about their faith, their theology, and the way these can be stewarded to serve and reflect the reign of God.

As excited as I am about being granted permission for this vision, I’m not sure that that is the most important thing that happened last night.

At the hearing, I learned that yesterday morning, someone had called into a local radio show, named me, and alerted the area that at last night’s 7:00 p.m. hearing, I was applying for a permit to create housing–a “group home”–on my property for 30 Somali refugees. People should show up at the meeting in Two Harbors, it was urged, and show that they don’t want people like that in our community. The radio host called the idea “insane” and said that all Somalis want to do is create a “Little Somalia.” Look, he said, at all of the terrible things they have done in Minnesota.

All of this, naturally, was news to me: the details of the call only became clear to me when this morning I found the recording online. You can hear the exchange on the link below, at about the 50:16 mark.

Apparently the Planning and Zoning Committee had received two calls of grave concern about my intentions, and it was because of these raised concerns that I was asked by the commission whether, indeed, these allegations were true.

I was stunned.

I confessed that I was conflicted about how to answer that accusation, for there were two elements to it.

First, I said, I have never thought, not even once, about building housing for 30 Somali refugees (or, for that matter, 30 Norwegians).

It was an absolute lie that was concocted for reasons unknown to me. There was no truth in it whatsoever.

Second, however, I also said this: I am a Christian. As such, I welcome all people to my home. How could I not? Welcome and hospitality are essential to who we are as Christian people. Particularly in this season, when we Christians celebrate the birth of a Savior who himself was a refugee, I wanted to make it publicly clear that all are welcome, regardless of whether this permit was approved or not. I was not before the Commission to apply for a permit for Christian hospitality, but rather a permit for theological retreat center.

I am grateful for several things:

1) I am grateful for the Planning and Zoning Commission who were neither swayed by the fear nor moved by this and other lies and baseless rumors that my application for a theological retreat center mysteriously generated.

2) I am grateful for the friends who showed up and not only defended me, but were courageous to refute other untruths that surfaced at the hearing.

3) I am grateful that such sort of fear-mongering and untruth-telling is not by any means the norm in these parts. My family and I have otherwise experienced amazing welcome and hospitality. Our experience of this place and the people who live here has been nothing but delightful and warm, and the beauty of the North Shore is simply unparalleled.

But I will not deny that last night shook me–and my father and 13-year old daughter who were in attendance.

It was distressing, for I am completely baffled as to the origin of the vitriol: those who know me know that I am truly quiet, I mostly read and write a lot, and I like drinking coffee, and at the end of the day enjoy a glass of red blend wine and/or an occasional Manhattan.

And it was distressing, for given the tenor of the day, that my name is now publicly associated with a false claim of harboring Somali refugees who themselves are unfairly mass-stereotyped as terrorists, I now have reasons to be concerned about retributions.

Suddenly I am aware not only of my own privilege in a new way, but the vulnerability of those who do not have it.

But it was most of all distressing, for the resort to racism and religious bigotry came easily and freely, and was easily and freely believed and spread.

Let me be clear, then, right from the start, about what my intentions are for the Spent Dandelion, intentions that are not only in keeping with my consistently expressed vision to friends and family and those who know me through my work as a pastor and theologian, but also with my application to the Planning and Zoning Commission:

The Spent Dandelion will be a place of retreat for 4-6 people. Not only can my property not hold any more people, I have no desire for more people to stay than that. I want to provide a quiet place for conversation and study and restoration.

The Spent Dandelion will welcome all people. I am a Christian, which means that I welcome not only Christians, but all people, for all people are God’s people…and of course this includes those who spoke and acted against me and my hopes for this place.

The Spent Dandelion will welcome all people, but it will not welcome racism, bigotry, lies, and general mean-spiritedness. Where it is expressed, I will continue to strive to name it and denounce it in the same spirit as Brother Amos did, and as Jesus calls us to do, and do as equally as we are called to welcome the stranger.

The Spent Dandelion will hope to offer an oasis for people to retreat from pressures, recover from stresses, and gain perspective not least of all about the sort of cultural and communal spirit that generates such anger and malignant falsehoods, so that returning, one has theological and personal clarity, calm, and courage to enter the fray of life again.

With that, now, regrettably but necessarily said, with the approval in hand, please know how excited I am to begin the final necessary preparations to welcome people to this place I already hold so dear, but now to do so by way of the Spent Dandelion Theological Retreat Center.

http://wdsm710.com/podcasts/sound-off/1421/monday-121916-hour-1/.

——————-

(Posted on Dec. 21)

It seems, unfortunately, that another post is necessary to set some significant matters straight about the Spent Dandelion Retreat Center.

To be honest, it is difficult for me to know whether addressing these allegations is wiser than ignoring them, but I have decided to err on the side of publicly correcting the misinformation that is being disseminated, all the more critical because as of yesterday’s 710 AM Sound-Off Radio show, in addition to more baseless rumors, my children’s names are now publicly associated with the lies.

That, for the record, is beyond unacceptable.

At 12:20 in the link below at the very bottom, you can begin to hear the latest coverage of the matter.

Right off the bat, my denomination, the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America (ELCA) was brought into the fray, with the question raised about the point at which the ELCA will come in and take control of the Spent Dandelion to make a half-way house for immigrants.

It would and could do so, it was stated, because housing refugees is part of the ELCA Mission Statement.

That is not true on several levels.

First, by reading the ELCA Mission Statement here https://www.elca.org/en/About/Mission, you can see that housing refugees is not mentioned in it.

That said, we as a denomination do have a commitment to stand with the refugees. Our eloquent and, these days, courageous statement about immigration can be found here: http://download.elca.org/ELCA%20Resource%20Repository/ImmigrationSM.pdf?_ga=1.85472925.541496699.1452747836, and our fine work with the esteemed Lutheran Immigration and Refugee Service can be found here: http://lirs.org/

I am proud to be a member of a denomination that is dedicated to welcoming the foreigner, as the long history of Scripture and our faith compels, and indeed commands, us to do.

Second, although many bishops I know have joked (and -only- joked!) about how they might -wish- that they have power to come in and take over a congregation or a ministry, they don’t.

Third, this truth is all the more the case in my situation, since my ministry is my very home.

Several callers, including one in this segment, indicated that I was “shut down” from large events, that I had to agree to having only six people, and that I was allowed to only have six vehicles.

Also not true: the basic information is, but the way it was construed was not.

As pictures of my application in the comment section show (I’m afraid that I had to take two photos, as I only had a computer copy of them at my immediate hand: the originals can be easily found at the Planning and Zoning Office), my initial application states very clearly that from the beginning I believed that only six people could stay here comfortably, and even then only if they knew and liked each other well!

In other words, the number of retreaters was not forced upon me, but rather was offered up by me in the very initial application.

You will also see on the pictures enclosed that I state that large gatherings would not only be very rare, but non-raucous. I state clearly that we do not like crowds or noise–in fact, that is precisely why, even though the suggestion for quiet hours was initially mistakenly suggested to be 7 p.m. until 10 a.m. (the person just accidentally flipped the times, which are typically 10 a.m. until 7 a.m.), I whole-heartedly agreed to these times, mistaken suggestion though they were.

I also make it clear on the application that on those rare occasions of a large gathering, a shuttle would be necessary, for I had no ample parking.

I also said that I had no interest in my hopes for the Spent Dandelion to be dashed because I, probably prematurely, had suggested that maybe, perhaps, on a rare rare occasion the Spent Dandelion might host a larger gathering. I was fine scratching that notion, although I did ask that it be possible that I could reconsider the notion before the Commission no sooner than a year down the road. Given that, an on-site limit of 20 people is more than fine with me, for that would accommodate a meeting of a comfortable size.

It was I who said that I could at most have 6 cars, including my own, on the property at one time. As was mentioned, the soil here is very clay-like when wet; given that, and allowing space for my son’s accessible school bus to turn around, six would be the safest and most prudent maximum.

Next, the announcer said that someone sent in to the show a picture of my very nice home (which, though it was very nice, was our home in Sioux Falls, and not our home in Two Harbors), with my OMG Mission Statement on it (I should have an official Mission Statement, but I don’t, though I do have a description of what I do through OMG) that includes that my home acts as a refuge for people traveling between Tehran and America.

I’d sure like to see that.

So, also not true.

So I went on the web to search for where this notion was cooked up, and the closest I could find, when I googled “OMG Madsen Tehran,” was a blog post written by a SD blogger whom I know, Cory Heidelberger, dedicated to a blog I wrote about the payday lending scourge in South Dakota. You can find that blog here: http://dakotafreepress.com/2015/08/19/martin-luther-payday-lenders-second-to-satan-as-enemies-of-human-dignity/

In one of the comments, this passage can be found:
“One of the main reasons Tehran John pushes this war with Iran bit is for that reason, war is good for the rich….Payday loans are much like war, they do little to benefit society while metaphorically killing and maiming all that are touched by those loans. They are the cluster bombs of capitalism.”

So…no. I have nothing to do with Tehran. I have not ever been a stopping ground for people arriving from Tehran. It is said that most people, anyway, fly -over- South Dakota rather than stop to land there–a sad slam on a state that enjoys its own unique beauty and powerful history.

As also occurred during the public meeting, my integrity and forthrightness were also called into question. It is not clear to me to what such people are referring, for there was nothing in my answers last night that was a surprise to the Commission, since I had been in regular conversation with them prior to submitting the application, and had been quite clear and consistent in my written answers on the application. Naming the exact alleged duplicity would be helpful, but I believe also unnecessary, were one to compare both the official application and the notes of the hearing. I have been absolutely transparent, truthful, and consistent, for to do otherwise would risk jeopardizing my hopes for this place, not to mention my integrity.

During this same section, the announcer suggests that I could end up getting money from the government as a Church group for transitional housing for immigrants.

Again, not true.

Although that might be true for non-profits, I am legally a for-profit, both as OMG and as the Spent Dandelion–a point more relevant were I to have actually ever indicated any interest in being any sort of housing for immigrants.

There was also the idea floated that perhaps, next, who knew, I could be building a Mosque here on the property.

So, no. For more reasons than I could begin to count, not true.

The woman who called in during this segment objected mightily to the name “OMG” as deeply offensive–as did either a different, or possibly the same woman at the hearing. For that I am sorry, but as I have written about before, I chose that name because it can be cried out in many ways, and has been even in Scripture: as lament, as prayer, as question, as praise. All forms are welcome here.

That segment ends at 22:50, with the next segment dedicated to the Spent Dandelion beginning at 27:00.

It was here that the announcer read my children’s names on the air.

I grant that this information is public, as it is on my blog site.

However, to read them in this context, where lies, misinformation, and fear are being generated about my intentions for the Spent Dandelion, puts my two children at risk for harassment, bullying, and other unsafe and unwelcome encounters they do not deserve.

You are welcome to be upset at me, and you are unfortunately free to lie about me, but my children are utterly irrelevant to the matter at hand, and should be completely left out of any public conversation of this sort.

It was an inexcusable thing to do.

The next caller said that my plan for welcoming immigrants was shot down.

In so far as I never had plans to welcome 30 Somalis into a new home here, nothing was there to be shot -at-, let alone down.

So, not true.

It was here too, and in the last segment, that my OMG: Center for Theological Conversation (www.omgcenter.com) was confused with OMG: Center for Collaborative Learning (http://www.omgcenter.org).

They are .org.

I am .com.

Unaware of the difference, the announcer was stunned at how many branches “I” have, while in fact the only branches I have are the ones gathered in my brush pile and on my forest floor and still extending from my beautiful trees.

That segment ended at 34:35.

In the last segment, beginning at 36:43 and ending at 39:57, I am both called a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and a camel with my nose under the Two Harbors’ tent.

I am very glad to have the wildlife that we do on this wonderful property, but of the three mammals listed above, only the wolves can be seen and heard here, and they are far stealthier and furrier than am I: a pretty average straight-forward human being.

Then the announcer, believing that I am www.omgcenter.ORG, instead of www.omgcenter.COM, asserts that I receive money from the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation.

There’s finally one allegation hurled at me in these last several days that I actually wish -were- true.

But nope.

Laced throughout this entire spectacle, it seems as if what has generated the dismay and the lies is this blog I wrote after the election: Time to Out-Amos Even Amos.

You can read it here: http://omgcenter.com/2016/11/12/time-to-out-amos-even-amos/

In it, I am very clear in my dismay about Donald Trump, the choice of the voters who got him into office, the principles which he and those who voted for him espouse, and the bigotry, misogyny, racism, homophobia, bullying, and disdain for the environment which is thereby fostered.

I am not alone in my objection, an objection made not least of all precisely because of my faith.

Nor am I a rare thing: a person of faith who sees that one’s politics come precisely and absolutely necessarily out of one’s faith.

As a systematic theologian, my whole calling is to help people look at their faith, understand why they have it, see where the weak and strong points are, and then determine what difference their beliefs make in all that they say and do: their vocations, how they treat their families, what food they eat, what car they drive, how they spend their money, and, of course, how they vote.

God has to mean something. If “God” means your ultimate belief, than all other beliefs and actions, all of them, emanate from that.

My God is the one I see in Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, a God evidenced in the Old and the New Testaments as consistently siding with the poor, and the humble, and the sick, and the hungry, and the foreigners, and the outsiders, and calling out those who oppress the same.

I have yet to find one thing that Donald Trump has consistently said or done that reflects the God of Amos or the God of Jesus–the same God, of course.

Below are only just a few links to show that while I was vehement in this blog, I am standing with others just as concerned, although they might express it in different ways.

http://religiondispatches.org/sharing-the-bad-news-of-donald-trumps-theology-of-glory/

https://www.castlechurchbrewing.com/blog/superman-cannot-save-us-only-love-will

http://www.teachingtheologians.org/open-letter.html

http://minnesota.cbslocal.com/2016/12/05/faith-communities-immigrant-sanctuaries/

In fact, my own Northeast Minnesota Synod just passed Resolution 16-3 (http://www.nemnsynod.org/uploads/2/5/8/8/25887261/bor_2016_resolutions_andsupportingdocuments.pdf) entitled “Support and Protection of Muslim Refugees.”

I know theology, and I know history. Both compelled me to write what I did.

Anyone has a right to disagree with me–as I do anyone else.

But lies have no place in honest disagreement.

As has been said, you have a right to your own opinion, but not to your own facts.

I hope in the above that I injected some more of the latter into the spreading opinions about the Spent Dandelion and about who I am.

And one more thing: despite what was said about me in Tuesday’s broadcast, I have no hate in my heart for anyone.

Real indignation, yes. Shock and anger, absolutely. Deep fear for what has been unleashed for the Least of These, without question.

But maliciousness? Hate?

No.

I hope that the same lack of maliciousness and hate can be directed toward my two children and me, and the hopes we have for the Spent Dandelion.

While lies and mean-spiritedness are not welcome here, any who leave those behind are.

http://wdsm710.com/podcasts/sound-off/1421/tuesday-122016-hour-1/

All you English majors, he’s our mascot, our beacon of hope, our implausible rock star: a wildly, winsomely, successful poet.

Mr. Collins wins his readers with charm, and wit, and startlingly sincere, weighty, and intense observations and truths great and small.

As it so happens, I had dinner with Mr. Collins two nights ago…while listening to him recite his work on Prairie Home Companion.  The kids and I tune in every Saturday evening that we can, curled up on our couches, a simple supper at hand, ideally with the fire roaring to complete the scene.  There he was, in our living room, we silently (until he made us laugh) munching our meal as he rendered his words.

You really should read this poem, called The Lanyard, which will make you grin while also rediscovering that repressed lump in your throat, or this one, named “Marginalia,” which will move you to check out books, fall in love, and scribble notes to borrowers never to be met.

The point of this blog, however, is this poem below:

AN INTRODUCTION TO POETRY by BILLY COLLINS

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem’s room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author’s name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

Now, read it one more time, slowly, and notice the images of the invitations and then the final wallop of the last two stanzas.

Oooof.

This poem, this one I read not as an English major, but as a theologian.

I understand where Mr. Collins going with it, I understand his loyal agenda to his vocation here, but as for me, I read it and wished I’d written the exact same piece except sticking in ‘biblical text’ wherever Mr. Collins wrote ‘poem.’

Granted, the flow isn’t as nice, but the point is neat.

I’ve long been fascinated by the way some people cling to biblical literalism: that belief that the Bible must be read as factually, incontrovertibly, exactly true.

The desire to be faithful to the text is noble.

But the urgency is bound up in something generally completely alien to the very people whom literalists want to honor.

The rigid commitment to a certain notion of truth is tied, like a horse to its post, to our habit of testing and proving and our valuing verifiable facts over story, over Mr. Collins’ craft.  (If you don’t believe me, just look at pay scales of professors teaching in the humanities and religion departments in comparison to those teaching in the sciences, or notice how wonderfully jarring it is that a poet has groupies!).

To boot, the literalist overlooks that we all have lenses, sometimes lenses of which we are powerfully unaware, through which we see everything, not least of all the Bible.

These lenses can color, clarify, distort, and highlight everything we see through them…except, of course, the fact that my kids are smarter, more compassionate, creative, seasoned, delightful, deep, and are generally a greater gift to the world than any other child born before or after.

That, my friends, is incontrovertible truth.

Wait.

Hmmm.

That, um…that just sort of unintentionally made my point, didn’t it.

Nevermind.

Let’s go back to using Scripture for this thought thread.

Junia.  In Romans 16:7, the early apostle Junia has, in many biblical translations, had her name rendered Julian.  Junia, as in female…Julian, as in male.

Why?

Because women of course can’t be apostles, silly.

Doch and doch again.

Not only have these mistaken translations been more faithful to the translators’ literalist (mis)understandings of Scripture (not to mention God), but for centuries–including our own, depending on which translation is being read–if you are a literalist reading this passage, you are literally and (not figuratively but) literally again simply wrong, and with grave consequences for women and those who could have benefited from their leadership.

(Feminist biblical scholar Elizabeth Schüssler Fiorenza helped pioneer a new way of reading and interpreting Scripture, leading us to a new vantage point from which we can’t, with integrity, return.)

But even if you push all of that aside, biblical literalism ignores the complex history of the development of the Bible (that link is to an OMG blog that covers in a crazy short and selective way how we’ve come to have the Bible)…and to boot, doesn’t seem to recognize that there is translation after translation after translation after translation, all which differ in notable and noteworthy and substantive ways.

Or a different, um, perspective: Luke 19:3 says that Zaccheus had to climb a tree to see Jesus because he was short.  It’s not, actually, entirely clear to whom the “short” refers, Zaccheus or Jesus.  That is, did Zaccheus need to climb up the tree to see Jesus because the crowd was so big, or did Jesus need to climb up a tree to see because the crowd was so big?  It could be the only instance in Scripture where we hear some description of Jesus. Turns out that it might have been shorter distance to get that sheep up around Jesus’ shoulders than all these artists have thought it was.

And then we have the question of what is truth anyway (that’s another OMG blog that covers in a crazy short and selective way the notion of Truth).

So, for example, if you and I are on a hill, and you say that you can see for 17.4 miles, and I say that I can see forever, which one of us speaks the truth?

If I say that I love you, is that a one-dimensional statement meaning only one thing for all time?  Or can those words enclose any number of fluid meanings, some of them even, on the face of it, contradictory?

Is it possible that what one said once in the past is no longer, given new circumstances, true now?

Or that what is true in one context isn’t true in another?

Or, as Shakespeare’s Benedick and Beatrice discovered in “Much Ado about Nothing,” is it possible that “There’s a double meaning” in words, even beyond one’s own awareness?

Now, I understand that words must mean something.  I work with words all the time: words are my schtick, my gig, my vocation.  Vacuous words, words that not only point to a reality that is all relative, but are themselves relative lose all meaning and meaningfulness.

But still, I believe that Mr. Collins has some words of wisdom not only for students of poetry, but students of Scripture.

With his poem in mind, now pick up your Bible and then dive deep into it (not literally), put it under a microscope and before a telescope (not literally), have a few drinks with it (not literally–well, you may beside it, but don’t bother offering one to the Scriptures), read it at 3:00 a.m. and 3:00 p.m. and in 450 CE in Ireland and in 1945 in Central Europe and in late March, 1980 in El Salvador and in late August, 2014 in Ferguson MO and in your life when your heart is glad and when it despairs…and then see what happens to it, and to you.

As for the mouse in Mr. Collins’ poem, he didn’t truly mean that.  That for sure shouldn’t be taken literally.

I sure hope he didn’t literally mean that anyway. It wouldn’t be enough to make me give up Billy Collins, but I’d read him only in the day time in someone else’s house.