Last Sunday, and this next, while their righteous pastor Rev. Dr. Ben Stewart is gone for a few weeks, I’ve been asked preach at a local congregation here in Two Harbors: Emmanuel Lutheran Church.

Below is first a link to the audio of the sermon, and then its transcript.

I based the proclamation on 1 Samuel 3:1-20, but felt compelled to reference his mother’s Hannah’s song, which wended its way generations later into Mary’s song; and how Hannah’s hymn shaped his prophetic ministry; and how Hannah’s courage shaped Eli’s receptivity to Samuel’s words; and how Hannah’s and Samuel’s clarity about their God, and Eli’s spurred recollection of his God, facilitates both our courage to speak hard words and our openness to hear them too.

Peace to you in this Epiphany season!

Anna

https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/p6ch6f2fjnzrjhqcwkyyp/Emmanuel-Lutheran-Epiphany-2B.m4a?rlkey=7fymy8ehnwwn31t5c03xz28bm&dl=0

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

“My heart exults in the Lord; my strength is exalted in my God…There is no Holy One like the Lord, no one besides you; there is no Rock like our God. Talk no more so very proudly, let not arrogance come from your mouth; for the Lord is a God of knowledge, and by him actions are weighed. The bows of the mighty are broken, but the feeble gird on strength. Those who were full have hired themselves out for bread, but those who were hungry are fat with spoil…He raises up the poor from the dust; he lifts the needy from the ash heap, to make them sit with princes and inherit a seat of honor…”

Now, although you can’t see them and didn’t hear them, these words course through our text from 1 Samuel today. Indeed, they infuse everything in our passage exactly in the same way that a mother’s food becomes the child growing within her, for when Samuel’s mother Hannah was pregnant with him, she uttered this hymn in praise to God at the news that she would bear a child.  

That’s to say that Samuel’s very growing essence was steeped in Hannah’s trust in God, and in her conviction that God was a God of justice, of righteousness, of compassion, a God who had preferential concern for the meek and for the poor…and who disdained those who with their wealth and power exploited the same. 

It was baked into his very being.

Whether the crafters of the lectionary intended it or not, Psalm 139 draws upon like imagery, that of a God who works within a woman’s womb, knitting—itself a skill typically associated with women, and so here is a mother God who knits with intention one who lives all their days according to the ways of God. 

It might seem strange to begin a sermon by referencing a passage that comes a chapter before the one on the day of the sermon!

But it’s impossible to gather even a little bit of the gist of a text if you don’t know the context, and there’s a lot of context here.

Briefly, it’s this: Hannah was married to Elkanah, who—as one was wont to do in those days—had two wives: Peninnah and Hannah.  Peninnah had Elkahah’s children, but Hannah had Elkanah’s heart.  Peninnah was no fool, and out of jealousy (though at another time, the story can and should be told through her eyes) she bullied Hannah to the degree that Hannah was bereft: she was without children, and she was taunted about it.  

In despair, Hannah went to the temple to go before God to pleased for mercy in the form of a child. Of all people, there sat Eli the priest—the very same Eli we hear about in our passage today—who watched her while she prayed. And for what did she pray? She prayed that if God gave her a son, she’d give the son back to God to be dedicated to God’s service.

Trouble was, Eli, the priest, and one of the two men of the hour for us today, saw her praying lips move, but did not hear her words. Naturally, his first and in fact only go-to assumption was that she’d tipped too much ancient hooch back. “How long,” he patronizingly scoffed at her, “how long will you make a drunken spectacle of yourself? Put away your wine.” Suffice it to say that Hannah had more poise than I would have.  “No…my Lord,” she said; how exactly she said that is not clear, but I like to imagine that she seethed through her deferential words, “No, my lord, I am a woman deeply troubled. I have drunk neither wine nor strong drink, but I have been pouring out my soul before the Lord.” Properly then chastised, Eli said the very words that sealed his fate and brings us to our text today. “Go in peace; the God of Israel grant the petition you have made to him.” 

The next day, she and Elkanah conceived Samuel.  

Once Samuel was born and weaned—we do not know how old he was—Hannah made good on her promise. She dedicated Samuel to God, and brought him to Eli, but not before reminding Eli (I like to think with a bit of holy snark) that it was she whom he had seen praying on that day, oh and by the way may I present to you the very son for whom I prayed.

It was at this moment that Hannah prayed another prayer, the one which I read at the beginning of the sermon.

And it was right after then, right after then, that we learn that although Eli might not have been so derelict in his fidelity to God, those sons of his? “Scoundrels,” Scripture says.  They ate the cooked meat offered in sacrifices intended for God, and they demanded that raw meat be given so that they could render the fat rather than the priests to be offered in worship.  They threatened those who were tasked with preserving the sanctity of the rituals. They mistreated the women who tended the holy spaces.  

And Eli knew it. 

Eli knew it, and while he spoke to his sons, crucially, he did nothing to put a stop to their offenses against the people and against God.  

God noticed, and it ticked God off.

So God sent someone, first a nameless priest to alert Eli to God’s displeasure. 

Did nix.

So, still a boy, along comes Samuel, now a dedicated servant to God and therefore to Eli the priest.

Three times God called to sleeping Samuel, three times Samuel thought it was Eli, and at that third time, Eli perceived that God was afoot.  

So Eli commanded Samuel to return to his bed, and this time, to listen for and expect God. 

Eager to please not just Eli the Priest, but the very YHWH, Samuel went back, laid down, and this time when God called him, Samuel eagerly said, “Speak, for your servant is listening!” 

God did, and chances are that Samuel wished he hadn’t been so enthusiastic—a word that literally means in (en) God (theos)—to have God speak! Why? Because God tells Samuel to declare to Eli that, because of his sons infidelity to the Lord, and Eli’s lack of fire to call his sons out, that Eli’s entire family would be decimated.  

Now if I were Samuel, I’d be tempted to put my head under the covers, try to go back to sleep, and hope that it was a dream. More or less, that’s exactly what Samuel opted to do: lay awake, eyes wide in the dark, until the morning to catch Eli over breakfast.  

It’s worth noting that each time that the Lord called out to Samuel, Samuel eagerly responded, “Here I am!” But this time, when Eli summoned him, Samuel said the same words, but I imagine they sounded more like “Here I am…”

Eli asked, then, to hear what God said to Samuel. He’d set himself up for this moment all the way back when he blessed Hannah’s hope for a child, and again by blessing Samuel as a prophet. See, here’s the remarkable thing: Samuel, the vulnerable boy; Samuel, the one knit by God in his mother’s womb; Samuel, knit by the same God who was on long record (and still is) of speaking of truth to power through the meek; Samuel, whose mother praised God as the God of the vulnerable, of the poor, of the faithful; this boy Samuel had to tell Eli the venerated priest that his rule was a desecration!

Two key textual takeaways here: 

First, Samuel did! He did as he was called to do: he told the truth to the one in power, reminding him of the way of God and his departure from it. 

Second, Eli received the rebuke! He heard the truth and he accepted it. 

How positively refreshing!  there was no denial, no cries of fake news, of politically motivated moves; there was no defensive anger or threats of retribution. There was humility, and there was even gratitude that in the name of God, Eli had been called out and called back.

And so also a proclamatory takeaway here: 

We, we gathered right here, we are rooted in the same tradition as Eli, as Samuel, and as Hannah. 

In her commentary on the text, the Episcopal priest Callie Plunket-Brewton reminds us that it is Hannah’s prayer and her pregnancy to a prophet which are set at the onset of Israel’s period of tumultuous monarchs. Her words told of a God who “breaks the bows of the mighty” and “girds the feeble,” who feeds the hungry and “raises up the poor from the dust. Hannah’s prayer, says Plunket-Brewton, “represents the central focus of YHWH’s leadership of the people: concern for the poor and powerless, and judgment of those who prey on the vulnerable and abuse their power.“

And as for Samuel, says Plunket-Brewton, throughout his vocation as a professional truth-teller, he “warns [the people of Israel] against kings who seek after their own good more than the collective good of their people. A king ‘will take the best’ from his people and use it for his own betterment (1 Samuel 8:11-18). The ideal ruler of the people [Samuel reminds] seeks only the good of the people and reflects the concern of YHWH for the poor and powerless.”

Anyone who identifies as a person of faith and who votes—or chooses not to—in 2024 should hearken to the tale in this Sunday’s text because it is apt, it is prophetic, and it is cautionary.

See, here’s the thing: at any given point, we may find ourselves channeling Hannah, or Samuel, or Eli. We might be praying that that whom—an adopted child or child by birth—or which—an idea, a position, a vocation, a vote—which we usher into the world reflects God’s intentions for the world; we might be summoned to speak hard words to hardened people; and we ourselves might be people of power and privilege, the hardened ones, who need to hear and receive a harsh word of reprimand and reorientation.  

We, of course, we are gathered here, we are steeped not only in the words and the faith and even the experiences of Hannah, Samuel, and Eli. 

We are also steeped in the faith of Mary, who, when she learned that she was carrying a certain baby named Jesus sang another song, one which clearly echoes Hannah’s. It goes something like this: “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant. Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name. His mercy is for those who fear him from generation to generation. He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts 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. He has helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy, according to the promise he made to our ancestors, to Abraham and to his descendants [like Hannah, Samuel, and Eli] forever.”

We are steeped and baptized in the words and the deeds of Jesus, whose entire ministry was dedicated to the preaching and the teaching of righteousness that was grounded in service, justice, sacrifice, mercy, welcome, humility, and unbridled love. 

See, it is not too much to say that there are any number of leaders in the world who bring the audacity of Eli’s sons and the obnoxious passivity of Eli and the selfish greediness of Israel’s monarchs to mind. 

Nor is it too much to say that the fear that Samuel felt when summoned to speak the Word of the Lord, and the courage that he found to do so, is known to many of us. 

Nor is it too much to say that any number of us feel the despair of Hannah—be it, say, for the lack of a child or for the lack of a world which is safe for children—and yet who nonetheless trust that God is not just present, but active in this same world, stirring a word, stirring a deed, and stirring hope within us and from us.  

We find grounding for our hope in the history of God with us—Emmanuel!—a history which Hannah, Samuel, Mary, and Jesus knew, trusted, and stewarded. 

But as Christians, we also find grounding for our hope in, actually, the future. 

We believe that Jesus is risen. 

That means that we believe that death does not win: be it the death of a loved one, or our own death; the death of a hope or an ideal; the death of fear wielding its power and greed and power seeming to win again and again and again.  

God told Eli that his corrupt family would end, and unpleasantly.  

Jesus’ resurrection tells us that sin, death, the devil and all its empty promises will also meet their end. 

That’s news that doesn’t just greet us when we meet our own demise, but when we are summoned to tell someone else that their unrighteous ways will, and should, meet their demise. 

Embedded in here, actually, is good news. 

Our God cares about the least of these, hears the meek, sees the arrogant, and reminds both the humble and the proud of the essence of who they are, and whose they are.  

Our God frees us to speak words that to some sound harsh, but to others—the faithful, the humble, the receptive—are liberating. 

Our God creates community which welcomes not only the poor and the meek, but also the sinners, and invites all into a life of mutuality, justice, forgiveness, and love. 

Emmanuel in Epiphany.

God made manifest in honest speech, in the humility to hear, and in the hope to a return to the righteous ways of God.

“Be still, then, and know that I am God,” Psalm 46:10.

Sunday, October 29 is Reformation Sunday, a High Feast Day of sorts in the Lutheran Tradition.

This year, we mark the 505th Anniversary of the day, this auspicious moment when German monk and scholar Martin Luther published a…few…objections to the practice of selling “indulgences.”

These, of course, were pieces of paper given out by Catholic priests of the day, notes which promised that any post-death misery brought on by sinfulness would be, to one degree or another, lessened.

But the Church wasn’t just giving these indulgences out like Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and Snickers Bars on Halloween.

Nope: any sinner wanting to stave off or tamp down eternal judgment had to pony up some pennies—the more the better—to earn God’s grace.

To brother Luther, this practice seemed like a heretical if not well-played racket.

So Luther, never one to mince words, decided to point out 95 ways that the buying and selling of grace was theologically and biblically skiddelywompus.

Here was what got under his craw:

If you have to purchase grace, if you have to earn grace, it’s many things, but it is not grace.

For that matter, no one, not even the pope of his day (especially the pope of his day, actually) is without sin.

When you get right down to it, it’s a matter of definitions, and they aren’t even theological.

A reward is based on merit.

Grace is straight gift.

That’s not to say that there isn’t theology in play though.

Luther was a biblical theologian, and after spending more than a little time in Scripture, Luther (and, now by extension, Lutherans) came to believe that the biblical witness makes it clear that ultimately, God doles out grace rather than rewards.

This discovery is a super fortuitous thing, because when you get right down to it, no one could ever have enough merits to earn any reward from God anyway.

Now, this thesis of Luther’s was, and 505 years later remains, a hotly disputed point among various religious traditions, but to make it, Luther only had to turn to passages like the Romans text above, a passage happily assigned for Reformation Sunday.

”For we hold that a person is justified by faith apart from works prescribed by the law.”

Lutherans are all over this take.

We hold this banner high and proud and with huge sighs of relief: there is nothing that we can do to “save ourselves” from our sinfulness or from God’s judgment.

To say otherwise a) renders Jesus’ death and resurrection for naught; and b) renders everyone totally and permanently without hope and screwed.

To trust the idea that works “make up a difference” implies that an intangible and unsullied part of us can carry the rest of our sloppiness through.

But in order for that to be true, there would have to be a sliver of purity within us not in need of redemption, some part that urges the messy parts of who we are, the potentially irredeemable parts of us, to engage in good works—be they indulgences, acts of piety, generosities, etc—to make up the difference and to prove our worthiness to God.

An E for Effort and (if God’s paying attention) Eternity.

Buuuuttttt…mind-bending though it is, at the end of the day, these good works themselves would be in need of redemption!

Their expressions would not be altruistic, but actually be veiled acts of self-preservation rather than pure manifestations of one’s faith and desire to follow God.

In some measure and to some degree, we’d do them to prove to God that we are deserving of heaven and not of hell, as if God trucks in rewards and not in grace, and as if God wouldn’t know that, if we’re honest with ourselves, at least a teensy weensy part of the drive to do good and be good is the hope of being spared rather than scorched.

So that part bugs us Lutherans, yes it does.

And very much along this line, we don’t like equating God to the Big Santa Claus in the Sky, a divine figure with lists of who is naughty and nice.

Luther and Lutherans know that life is messier than those binaries, and God is more nuanced, not to mention charitable, than Santa.

Bonhoeffer, the closest we Lutherans have to a saint, wrestled with this question of the dualistic Good and Bad, not to mention the matter of grace over against works.

His answer—and his execution—was grounded in radical trust in the grace of God over against his own futile efforts to earn it.

But we don’t need to be faced with the stakes of Auschwitz to know something of the wrestle too:

• Does God want us to enjoy a late-Fall hike, to build a bonfire with family, to bake an apple crisp to savor, OR, looking around at all the suffering there is in the world, would God rather that we use that time to volunteer at a food shelf, or advocate for the Least of These, or transform that spare room which no one uses into a space for a homeless person?
• You need a certain phone service or streaming source or retirement investment option, but the more you poke around, the more you learn that the meta-companies fund harm in this world, and so your support of these necessities funds their hate and hurt.
• Do you speak faithful words of prophetic speech from the pulpit as we were baptized and called to do, assuaging the oppressed and suffering but annoying the powerful, or do you remain quiet, to appease the privileged and those who fund the righteous ministries that would be otherwise threatened?
• Do women drink red wine because it is healthy for our hearts, or abstain because alcohol can cause cancer?
• Carbs or no carbs?
• Cloth diapers or disposable?
• Wood heat or propane?
• Be fruitful and multiply or, with an eye toward overpopulation, abstain from bearing children?

Phew.

It’s exhausting to strive for righteousness, or to be righteous, or even to know what righteousness is!

So Luther named all that, and Lutherans claim all that:

• You are justified.
• You can’t accept God, or Jesus as your personal lord and savior for that matter, because God has chosen you.
• You can’t be saved because you already are saved.

Because this theological thrust is so significant to our history and our identity, Lutherans have come to equate the gospel with the statement that our sins are forgiven.

Ask most any Lutheran, lay or otherwise, to preach or identify the gospel, and they will proudly proclaim that we are saved by grace and not works.

We are justified by faith.

And this makes sense, right, because Martin Luther radically re-oriented believers’ trust, wrenching it from faith in ourselves and our own works and to faith in God and God’s mercy.

And this is all right and good and true.

But the trouble is, right and good and true message that the forgiveness of sins is, it isn’t the gospel.

The gospel is that Jesus is risen.

That’s the good news, that’s the thing that makes Christians Christians, that’s the piece that allows Christians to radically enter the world with a new awareness of death and a new definition of life.

Sinfulness is a form of death (obvs), but we are freed from it because Jesus is risen, rendering any death, due to sin or otherwise, ultimately impotent in the face of God’s triumph over it.

See, it’s not like there is some asterisk that hovers next to Jesus’ resurrection leading to some fine print statement that “*some conditions may apply.”

But.

Here’s the thing:

That tendency of ours to trust in grace has made Lutherans almost allergic to works.

We are so acutely aware of how easy it is to fear that God is watching and taking notes, and therefore how a person could be tempted to do a good work in hopes that one would earn an extra notch in our ‘pro’ column, that we have tended to misunderstand grace to mean this:

Because we don’t have to do any good works, we ought not do any good works.

Which, spoiler alert, is malarky.

Lutherans have leaned on grace so much we’ve become prone.

Quiet.

In fact, there’s even a name for it: Lutheran quietism.

We remain still when we could be, should be, at work, stewarding God’s reign in the world.

~~~~~

This brings us to the second text above, the verse from Psalm 46: “Be still, and know that I am God.”

I have long confessed, at the risk of being accused of irreverence (and, to be fair, of actually being irreverent) that I am not a fan of this verse.

But for two reasons, this verse has gotten under my craw.

First, I have had these words said to me—offered in good faith and as good advice—in times when I have been beyond overwhelmed, tapped out, and unable to find a way forward.

These folks meant it well.

But the fact was, had I been still in those times, especially as a single mama of two small and one very wounded children, nothing would have been done by nobody, including by God.

In order for some order to come into the midst of chaos, some reason for hope in the midst of despondency, some actual balm over some actual wound, some body needs to do some thing.

Second, stillness been a dangerous partner to the Lutheran tendency to avoid works and instead to be quiet and trust in God.

The train of thought goes like this: if we don’t have to do any works, because God’s grace prevails, and we do have to be still, because God’s got this, then we can, with God’s blessing, do nothing.

It’s a perfect combination for divinely blessed passivity.

Turns out, though, that the word rendered “still” might not mean what we think it means.

Rather than bidding us to be inert, instead, the word (רפה) rapha is perhaps better understood as “be weak,“ or “be vulnerable,” or “be open,” or “let go.”

In fact, the plural has been used to refer to “the place of the dead.”

See, now I can totally get behind that sort of understanding of ‘still.’

It’s a stillness that is brought about by humility rather than passivity.

It’s a stillness that acknowledges death, but refuses to cede power to it, because we know that God is God, and that this God is a God who brings life out of death, who does not deny our reasons for fear, but who bids us to rise through and above the fear even so.

~~~~~

This Reformation Sunday, one could and should dwell on the grace of God which meets us in the moments of our greatest depravity.

And there is gospel to be found there, to be sure.

If it weren’t for that radical insight, that transformative news that we are:

saved by grace and not by works;

chosen and even as babies sealed by the Holy Spirit in our baptisms;

and justified,

we would have no reason to remember Luther, to celebrate Reformation day, or to live without anything but dire fear of God.

But as grateful as we can be about Luther’s kicker of a theological claim, it is possible that, as people of the Reformation, we could also use this opportunity to reform our definition of the Gospel, and of how we steward that gospel in the world.

It is possible to consider that the gospel, as we’ve typically understood it, is pretty narrow.

So maybe we could use this Reformation Day to reflect on the possibility that:

• Left with Luther’s take on it—key though his take was—we are left with a gospel that is only relevant to the sinners, and not those sinned upon, or who grieve, or who fear, or who hurt, or to the groaning of creation;
• In our reduction of the gospel to the forgiveness of sins, we have also reduced sinfulness to those of the individual, rather than also those of the collective;
• Thanks to Luther’s context (which is not ours) maybe we’ve have focused on the idea of personal post-death salvation, rather than present personal and communal well-being too;
• By focusing on justification we have neglected it’s corollary, namely justice;
• If grace is all there is to say in the matter, it implies that there is little to no need for repentance, and little to no need for judgment;
• Cheap grace means that sinfulness doesn’t matter, because we’re all in, but costly grace claims that although grace wins the day, there is some confession to be offered, some hard truths to be told and heard, and some repentance to be had;
• Lutherans can celebrate Luther’s re-orientation of the Church toward grace, while also, as people who are predisposed to reformation, do some re-orientation of our own toward a new notion of gospel news in today’s context.
• Apart from all conversation and thought about sin, we can engage in joy, delight, appreciation, and celebration of all things beautiful, creative, and which point to the love of God.

Paul was right: we are justified by faith and not by works.

The writer of Psalm 46 was right: we can rest in the trust that we are finite, and that even in the places and times in which we are dead, God is present and active.

Luther was right: we cannot save ourselves, but are already saved.

But this proclamation is also right, and more right than any of these other claims: Jesus is risen.

As followers of Jesus, we trust that death is powerful but not most so; that we follow Jesus into places of death to steward life; and that nothing, nothing in the greatest or in the least, can separate us from the love of God.

(To see me stand even higher on this soapbox, pick up my book I Can Do No Other: The Church’s Here We Stand Moment, published by Fortress Press).

I became a theologian because of my father.

I became a feminist theologian, and found a way to remain a Christian, because of Rosemary Radford Ruether.

Last week, Rosemary Radford Ruether died after 85 years of tenacity, brilliance, good humor, righteousness, and chutzpah that changed the Church, changed the way we think about God, changed the way we do theology, and changed lives.

Social media feeds of women friends and colleagues have cascaded with tributes to her influence in their personal and professional worlds.

Despite the breadth and depth of her insight, I sincerely doubt that Dr. Ruether could have had even a smidgen of a sense of the range and the velocity of her impact on the lives of women she would never meet.

This morning, I went to my study and grabbed two of her books from my shelf: Sexism and God-Talk: Toward a Feminist Theology, and New Woman New Earth: Sexist Ideologies and Human Liberation.

I fanned through them both, though I confess it has been some time since I’d had them in my hands.

But it was the first one, Sexism and God-Talk, that made my eyes get wet.

It was published in 1983.

I was yet in high school when I first opened the book, and it felt so rebellious, so beyond the pale of what I’d been taught to be theologically possible, let alone acceptable, that I remember feeling torn between reading it under the cover of night and brazenly spreading it out, spine cracked open for all to see at the nearest busy coffee shop, and even to tempt an exchange with my not-yet-open-to-feminist-theology father (NB: he’s gotten there!).

Flipping through the pages, I saw 40-year old underlines, arrows, exclamation points, and dog-eared pages, all signs of a girl blooming in faith and into womanhood, owning her thinking and her theology.

I was positively exhilarated by this radical idea that one could be a Christian and a feminist one at that.

Who. Knew.

And then I saw this:

“ ♀︎ images of God”, I wrote.

Deep. Exhale.

There it was, in print.

She wrote it and I read it.

“God is both male and female and neither male nor female. One needs inclusive language for God that draws on the experiences of both genders…Inclusiveness can happen only by naming God/ess [!!!] in female as well as male metaphors.”

Gobsmacked, I was.

Positively blown back on my kiester to see that a deeply faithful female Christian theologian—a Catholic, no less!—even existed let alone expressed what I’d only had stirrings of hope to see: God was not merely male.

It is not too much to say that this page kept me in the Church.

Her solid scholarship unearthed, blew dust off, shined light on the news that men in power had fashioned a male god with power that suited their needs to maintain power and take away that of women’s, all done in the name of God and therefore with the authority of God to back them up.

Her academic creds, her adept writing, and her relentless courage that was splayed out for all to see by way of her lived convictions opened up imaginations and possibilities and pietistic pursed lips into gaping mouths.

It began to click that if God is not male, then…all of the sexist, misogynist, and patriarchal extrapolations and exploitations emanating from that fundamental premise are rendered bunk.

Complete and utter bunk.

~~~~~

In her chapter on Christology, entitled, “Can a Male Savior Save Women?” Rosemary Radford Ruether wrote, “The Vatican declaration in 1976 against women’s ordination sums up Christological masculinity with the statement that ‘there must be a physical resemblance between the priest and Christ.’ The possession of male genitalia becomes the essential prerequisite for representing Christ, sho is the disclosed of the male God.” (126)

If there had been emojis back then, she would have asked the editor to insert the eye-roll one right into her text.

Implicitly, as here, and explicitly elsewhere throughout her book, Rosemary Radford Ruether also artfully, skillfully, and solidly demonstrates how theology is informed as much by context and culture as it is by any sense of divine revelation.

“The uniqueness,” she writes, “of feminist theology lies not in its use of the criterion of experience but rather in its use of women’s experience, which has been almost entirely shut out of theological reflection in the past.  The use of women’s experience in feminist theology, therefore, explodes as a critical force, exposing classical theology, including its codified traditions, as based on male experience rather than on universal human experience.  Feminist theology makes the sociology of theological knowledge visible, no longer hidden behind mystifications of objectified divine and universal authority.” (13)

She laid bare the obvious correlation between power structures and values in society with power structures and values in the church, making it abundantly clear (to those who have ears to hear and eyes to see) that what is often asserted as a mark of faith and theological mandate is, rather, a mark of patriarchal quests for self-propelling power.

Page after page, she either undresses the Emperors of Patriarchal Religion, or reveals how they have been, in fact, naked all along.

And she didn’t stop there.

In a day when ‘feminists’ were only beginning to hear their out-calling by womanists, i.e., black women who saw that feminism was a white-women movement driven by and speaking to the experiences only of white women, and when the term “base community” had merely military connotations rather than that of the core liberation theology organic groups burgeoning in Roman Catholic Latin America, Rosemary Radford Ruether put on her socio-economic justice hat.

Feminism sounded good but she nailed it when she named it: feminism really referred to white women’s liberation, and only to white women’s liberation.

“Women,” she said, “always occupy two interlocking kinds of social status.  As a gender, all women are marginalized and subjugated relative to males.  But as members of class and race hierarchies, women occupy class levels comparable to, although as secondary members of, their class and race.  Any strategy of women’s liberation must recognize the interface and contradictions between these two ways of determining women’s social status…White middle-class women are tempted to compensate for gender discrimination but using women of the lower class to do their ‘women’s’ work, thereby freeing themselves to compete as equals with men of their group…The glitter of feminist ‘equality,’ as displayed in Cosmopolitan and Ms., both eludes and insults the majority of women who recognize that its ‘promise’ is not for them.” (222).

She wasn’t an armchair theologian and had no interest in armchair Christians.

One’s faith claims claim one’s faith and life.

She refused to let anyone fail to see that connection, or fail to live out that connection.

For this reason too, Rosemary Radford Reuther was adamantly pro-Choice.

”Male power over women means a denial of women’s right to control their own bodies.  Denial of reproductive decision making is fundamental to this control.  The male who ‘owns’ a woman is assumed to have total sexual access to her.  She must not reject his advances or make decisions about the effects of his ‘seed’ upon her body and her life.” (175)

The woman knew how to wield words, wisdom, and cold hard truth.

~~~~~

But while her book is focused on uncovering both the ruse of male dominant religion and, arguably more importantly, the rich but hidden and suppressed tradition of women and the feminine represented and shaping religious history, tradition, and revelation, there was a deeply pastoral purpose to it too.

Rosemary Radford Ruether knew that when women, and men of integrity, discovered the way in which women have been systematically sidelined in the name of God, they could feel powerful disillusionment with the Church.

She wrote, “It is precisely when feminists discover the congruence between the Gospel and liberation from sexism that they also experience their greatest alienation from existing churches.  The discovery of alternative possibilities for identity and the increasing conviction that an alternative is a more authentic understanding of the Gospel make all the more painful and insulting the reality of most historical churches.  these churches continue to ratify, by their language, institutional structures, and social commitments, the opposite message.  The more one becomes a feminist the more difficult it becomes to go to church.” (191-192).

And wow, back in the day did she strike a chord with me right there.

One foot and half of the other one were out of the door when Sexism and God-Talk talked to me.

And she talked me down and talked me into the Church again, precisely because she was there.

Rosemary Radford Ruether modeled feminist faith, mentored feminist theology, and made it possible for countless women to stay in the church, and even serve in it, in spite, and to spite, its white and patriarchal heritage.

Well done, good and faithful servant.

Rest well, servant of God/ess.

I give deep thanks to and for you.

NPR’s obituary for Rosemary Radford Ruether

National Catholic Reporter’s Biography of Rosemary Radford Ruether

National Catholic Reporter’s Obituary of Rosemary Radford Ruether

Excerpt about Rosemary Radford Ruether in Patricial Miller’s Good Catholics

Rosemary Radford Ruether’s summation of why she was pro-choice

All page references come from Sexism and God-Talk: Toward a Feminist Theology (Boston: Beacon Press, 1983).

~~~~~

In personal news, my latest book Joyful Defiance: Death Does Not Win The Day, published by Fortress Press, is now out!

And, of course, don’t hold back from picking up my last book, I Can Do No Other: The Church’s New Here We Stand Moment, also by Fortress Press.

That’s what the Magi did—we don’t know how many, we don’t know their names, we don’t know their skin color (though it’s a safe assumption that none of them were any hue of white).

What we do know is this: rather than making their way to Herod, a self-centered, manipulative, paranoid despot who could nonetheless (or, perhaps, precisely therefore) see the baby both for who he was and the threat that this tiny Jesus posed to his great power, these wise men went home by another way.

With every footstep away from Herod, they renounced him and Herod’s evil intents to boot.

~~~~~

On a hike several weeks back, my beloved and I were talking about our Lutheran service of affirmation of baptism.

We talked about how curious it is that when we go to all the trouble to liturgically ‘renounce’ pretty hefty attempted claims on us, like, say, “the devil and all the forces that defy God, the powers of this world that rebel against God, and the ways of sin that draw you from God,” we do with pretty much the same enthusiasm as it takes us to renounce a ham sandwich in favor of one made with roast beef.

“I renounce them,” we say, politely.

“Funny,” he observed, “how those who embrace such things manage to renounce God with a heck of a lot more fervor than we who renounce such things!”

Spot. On.

A year ago today, hoards of people swarmed our nation’s capitol and unabashedly renounced democracy, renounced truth, renounced civility, renounced anything but white supremacy, Christian nationalism, anarchy, and violence.

With every footstep of theirs, they made their way toward Trump, and they embraced him and all of his evil intents.

On Epiphany.

I still cannot wrap my head around that confluence: the insurrection happened on the day when we in the liturgical Church mark the Season of God Made Manifest.

~~~~~

Christians, we are people of the resurrection, not people of the insurrection.

Both words come from the same Latin root “insurgentem,” meaning ‘to rise up, to rise against,” but their meanings are quite different.

Insurrectionists rise up against a government, in this case one democratically elected.

They renounce communal rules and embrace destruction.

Followers of the resurrection follow a risen Lord.

They embrace community and renounce destruction.

From last year on for some time to come, Christians cannot mark the day of Epiphany without addressing that this day also marks the attempted coup.

On Epiphany, January 6 2021, Christians saw in real life and time the stakes of going home the way of Herod rather than going by home another way.

This is the season of God manifest, of God-made-knowings.

This Epiphany, we are all the more pressed to identify which God we want to make manifest, do make manifest, and do know.

We are also called to renounce all would-be gods, and to do so with the vehemence such renunciations deserve.

Go home, by all means.

But go home by any way other than the one that takes you into any manifestation of Herod and his self-serving trap.

I voted out of anger at a man who was elected by Christians despite his history of assaulting women, mocking the disabled, and racist rhetoric.

I voted out of anger at a man some Christians still support, despite him separating babies from mamas, despite him sidling up to white supremacists and the Proud Boys, despite him belittling and insulting people, despite him inciting violence, despite him pal-ing it up with dictators, despite his destruction and disregard for the care of creation, despite his documentable lying, despite his reduction of protections for women and the GLBTQIA community, despite his clear desire to disenfranchise voters, despite his threat to stay in power even if he loses the election, despite his inept response to Covid, and despite their self-identification as Christians.

I voted out of anger at people reducing pro-life to a slogan referring to abortion, while neglecting to note that many abortions are to protect a mama’s life, a twin’s life, a raped girl’s life; and that under this president, refugees fleeing for their lives have been returned to certain deaths, health insurance has been taken away causing avoidable disease and death, and the number of people who have died from preventable Covid spread this year under this purported pro-life president is more than a quarter of the number of abortions of 2017, the last year on record, and the number of people infected is over nine times as many.

But I also voted out of hope.

This country has been defined by privileged whites, and is now going through the birth pangs of being defined instead by demographic that is beautiful in its diversity.

Birth is inherently painful, but inherently hopeful.

More people are politically engaged than ever, including people and groups explicitly of faith.

Incarnate faith in motion is hopeful.

I wanted Elizabeth Warren or Kamala Harris to be our nominee, not Joe Biden. But we have Joe, and he picked Kamala as his running mate, and so times are changing.

Change is hopeful.

Optimism expects is what is probable, hope expects what is not.

I am not optimistic that we can heal from these last several years leading up and enduring Trump. Therefore I am left to hope.

And I voted out of my faith.

My faith sides with the least of these because Jesus did just that.

My faith compels me to welcome the stranger and heal the sick and feed the hungry, because Jesus did just that.

My faith moves me to speak in indignation at those who oppress others, because Jesus did just that.

My faith thrusts me into circumstances of fear and death because I refuse to cede them power, because Jesus refused just that.

My faith, then, sent me into the courthouse to vote for Biden and Harris, whose policies, while not perfect, most closely reflect God’s agenda in the world as seen through Jesus.

Not to mention Micah, Isaiah, Amos, and pretty much the entire biblical canon.

~~~~~

Truthfully, I have at least four half-completed blogs from the last month.

I haven’t been able to finish any of them.

Not a one.

That’s due in part because of the ripple-effects of Covid’s reality on our lives, in part because of vocational deadlines claiming my attention, but mostly because I start to write and find myself so aghast, so stymied, so grieved that we are even in this place.

I have been at a loss for words.

But when I voted, I made my voice known.

I hope I spoke for the voiceless, or those with unheard voices too.

Please.

If you have not voted, do.

Speak up.

I know that neither Biden nor Harris are perfect.

But they are also neither despots nor autocrats.

They exhibit compassion, empathy, and integrity.

Good lord, do we need a return to that.

And so help us return to that as a nation.

You have the power to do so.

Just by way of a single tiny filled-in circle, you can steward your anger, harness your hope, manifest your faith, and make the world a better place.

Vote.

Vote for Joe Biden and Kamala Harris.

This is par for the course in my life.

It’s far worse if I need something after I clean: then I really can’t find anything.

Instead, though, I found another thing, something which I needed more than what I was looking for in the first place.

Inside a file drawer, one that is inside a file cabinet which is inside a second-floor closet that is tucked inside a narrow space between the exterior of our house and an underused room, I found a stash of files from my friend and mentor, Walt Bouman.

My jaw dropped, for here in the netherworlds of my house were files that in the netherworlds of my brain I knew I had, but had misplaced, just like I had this treasure trove of knowledge and wisdom.

Two decades ago, Walt and I were working on re-writing what had been The Concordat, which was voted down at a Churchwide Assembly, and for which he’d been a primary architect.

After it failed, but with the hope offered that it could be passed in a new form, I flew from South Dakota, where I was serving as a pastor, to Columbus Ohio, to use my Continuing Ed time to help him take another run at what would later be called Called to Common Mission.

At one point, down in his basement, surrounded by a fortress of file cabinets filled with his research, talks, lectures, letters, and journal contributions, I scolded him (not the first time, nor the last, an occasion which I remember well) because he hadn’t written the books he should have.

“Anna,” he said, his voice squealing a bit as it always did when he was cracking a joke, “I don’t want to write books. But right here and now I give you permission to plagiarize everything here and write your own!”

Well, I have not plagiarized him (though had I, I would have recalled his beloved and oft-thundered “It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission!”).

I have written my own book, which could just as well have been his book, given his influence on me.

But it turns out, up in my files, I discovered that Walt had, actually, written a book.

I (re)discovered it because of a file marked “Augsburg Confession.”

I’m serving as an adjunct professor at Lutheran Theological Southern Seminary, teaching, wait for it, the Confessions.

So I grabbed the file, plunked my kiester on the floor, and flipped through to see what I could find within that manila file that maybe just maybe would be helpful for my next lecture, which was the next day, which may or may not have needed a bit more work.

There, on the very top, was a letter to Walt, from Pr. Frederick Schumacher, who was then the editor to the American Lutheran Publicity Bureau.

In it, he thanked Walt for his contributions to the work-in-progress Prayer Book, which was using the Augsburg Confession as the basis for the devotional reflections.

Beneath that epistle lay a letter from Walt to Bishop Richard Bansemer, the former bishop of the Virginia Synod.  “I have now finished,” said Walt, “what I can do to expand your teaching prayer book on the Augsburg Confession. Let me say, first, that your written prayers are an impressive devotional way of entering into the Augsburg Confession.  This is something that Lutheranism has long needed.”

And he was right.

Beneath this letter lay the original manuscript for Walt’s reflections, thoughts spurred by each of the 28 articles of the Augsburg Confession, this foundational document for the Lutheran tradition, this compilation of assertions of what we as Lutheran followers of Christ believe to be essential matters of faith and conviction.

After ~35 mouth-agape minutes, flipping through this gorgeous surprise discovery, my leg was cramping a bit.

So I got [slowly and with a few muttered expletives] up, and went to my shelves to find the manuscript-become book, right where it had been in front of my eyes for years: We Believe: A Prayer Book Based on the Augsburg Confession.

And with that purple tome in hand, not only was my lecture transformed, but the rest of my afternoon, and the rest of the semester for this class, and much of my thinking about the Confessions from here on out.

~~~~~

We in the Lutheran tradition forget that the Augsburg Confession was, at root, pastoral in nature.

The early reformers were deeply concerned about the well-being of the laity, and how theology done badly could lead to church done badly which could lead to laity being harmed by theology and the church.

So the Augsburg Confession is a document that shows the intersection between theology and faith and the Church and the well-being of the people of God.

The timing of the find was perfect, because as people of God, of what do we have these days more need than some well-being, not to mention comfort at hope?

As the old commercial for Prego said, “It’s in there.”

~~~~~

Today is Maundy Thursday.

The word ‘Maundy’ sounds a bit weird, perhaps because it hits our ears in ways similar to the word “Monday,” which, when set next to “Thursday” simply makes no sense at all.

But the word “Maundy” is etymologically related to the word “Commandment,” or “Mandate.”

In other words, today is a day when we hear two Commandments from Jesus.

I can’t quite help but think that somehow the word “mandate” carries more heft, though, in a way.

So today we got ourselves some mandates from Jesus, some direction about how as followers of Jesus, this is what we do.

This is what we are mandated to do.

It’s not what we have to do.

It’s what we do.

The doing of them defines our being.

And what are those mandates?

Come to the table.

Serve others.

~~~~~

Article 10 of the Augsburg Confession reads, in part, this way:

It is taught among us that the true body and blood of Christ are really present in the Supper of our Lord under the form of bread and wine and are there distributed and received.  The contrary doctrine is therefore rejected.

In We Believe, Walt depended on these words for his reflection, along with this passage from 1 Corinthians 11:20-26:

When you come together, it is not really to eat the Lord’s supper. For when the time comes to eat, each of you goes ahead with your own supper, and one goes hungry and another becomes drunk. What! Do you not have homes to eat and drink in? Or do you show contempt for the church of God and humiliate those who have nothing? What should I say to you? Should I commend you? In this matter I do not commend you!

For I received from the Lord what I also handed on to you, that the Lord Jesus on the night when he was betrayed took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, “This is my body that is for you. Do this in remembrance of me.” In the same way he took the cup also, after supper, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me.” For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.

With these two texts in mind, Walt began his mulling.

He immediately notices that clearly, the arguments about the nature and purpose of the Eucharist were hardly novel to the time of the Reformers. Even in Corinth, Walt writes, circa 50 C.E., there were anywhere between quibbles and outright dissension about the Table of the Lord.

But then he makes two points.

First, he wrote: “Jesus’ presence as the offered one takes place in a community of believers who receive his offering by offering themselves for each other and for the world.”

In other words, Jesus did not just come for you.

Jesus did come for you, but it’s not all about you.

Jesus came for the people of God, of whom you are, of course, but of whom every other single person is as well.

So as sisters and brothers, as children of God, we give ourselves for each other in the same way as we would for our flesh and blood, not least of all because in partaking of Jesus’ flesh and blood, the rest of humanity is our flesh and blood.

We are bound to one another because we are bound to Christ.

Second, Walt urged us to recall this:

”If we use Christ’s offering of himself as the occasion for not recognizing the needs of others, if we indulge ourselves instead of offering ourselves, then our meal is not the Lord’s Supper. Then we might as well stay home; we are not the church, for the church is the community of people who receive Christ’s offering by offering themselves.”

Our Confessions class has spoken about how our theologies have changed since COVID-19.

Funny how the theoretical becomes quite tangible in times of crisis.

So here’s an instance of just that, on this Maundy Thursday, of how what once meant one thing now means quite another, post Coronavirus.

This year, unlike years past, the line “Then we might as well stay home” rings differently.

Before, I would have read it as an exhortation: we are Church when we come together and commune together, so come together and commune together as often as you can.

And before, that would have made complete sense, so much so that I would have probably passed right over it.

But it is now after Coronavirus has hit.

I have wondered what Walt would have made about some of the very faithful, and very earnest, and very…vigorous…debates about whether it is possible to offer and experience Holy Communion by virtual means, given the Quarantine that has rightfully and righteously put the kibosh on gathered worship.

But I have been never left to wonder what Walt felt about the essential nature of the Eucharist as not just a defining component of gathered worship, nor about his love of the Church.

Thanks to the promises bound to the pro-offering and partaking of the body and blood, the bread and the wine, of Jesus, we are constitutively part of Jesus, and therefore constitutively part of Jesus’ vision for the world.

The Communion of the Saints, separated now for weeks from one another and with no end in sight, we are feeling hungry, we are feeling parched, for bread, for wine, and for a shared meal of celebration, and many of us are itching to get out of home not just of all to get back to the ‘normal’ of things (whatever that will look like, post-Quarantine), but to be able to help all of the neighbors who are desperately needing the real and visible communion of the saints to bring them the gospel, salvation, in tangible form, like medical care, groceries, child care relief, and company, and to bring them hope.

At the very least, we have come to learn all the more about how precious Holy Communion is and Holy Community is, during this time of quarantine.

And I would hope that we perceive that what for us is temporary has been for others a way of life: hungry, parched, and longing for a shared meal and community.

Perhaps we can grasp all the more that we cannot be fed with Jesus and refuse to feed others.

Refusing food withholds life and offers death.

Offering food extends life and refuses death.

We are by our very definition ambassadors of life, and servants of God and to one another.

We can see that perhaps no more clearly when the central moment of our worship is to offer our sisters and brothers a meal and promise that this is, no really, this is for you.

We can see that no more that no more clearly on any day of the Church than on Maundy Thursday.

~~~~~

The Coronavirus is not welcome, on so many levels.

But after any number of experiences of suffering, I have come to believe all the more that Martin Luther was right: we can be absolutely sure of God’s presence where there is suffering and death, for precisely there is where God begins something new.

I am hopeful that out of the suffering and death that we have seen in the wake of Coronavirus, there will be an awareness of our need to repent of the ways that led to its spread, to the inequities that heightened its scourge most of all among the least of these, and to the iniquities which have systematically undervalued those whom we now call (perhaps fleetingly? perhaps permanently?) ‘essential workers,’ those who are paid ~$10.00 an hour to feed your family, tend to your loved ones, and clean up where you or someone may have inadvertently left the virus so that you and they might not die, even if they themselves risk dying to ensure it.

For 10 bucks an hour.

There is a difference between being servants of Christ and being forced into capitalistic servility, that is.

~~~~~

I mentioned above that I remember my very last scold to Walt.

If you listen closely, you can hear it in this sermon of his I’ve linked below.

It was his last sermon, which was therefore basically Walt’s last will and testament, for he preached it while he knew he was dying.

The thing of it is, we are all dying, all the time.

And yet even dying people need to be fed.

Especially dying people need to be served.

Therefore we all need to be fed and served, and to feed and serve.

That’s Maundy Thursday’s message.

It’s Maundy Thursday’s mandate, in fact.

Feed.

Serve.

Be a servant of Jesus.

Serve one another.

(But these days, please do stay home, for even Walt would say, I do believe, that by staying home you can better be Jesus to one another. It’s easier for me to ask eventual forgiveness of him than permission, and it’s not a far stretch from appropriating his thoughts to plagiarizing them, so I figure it’s all good).

~~~~~

Walt’s sermon can be found here in written form, and here in video.  I encourage you to watch it and have the manuscript at the ready, for the baptismal font was particularly loud that day, and sometimes you can hear the living water better than the living word.

Peace.

So, arg.  No Christmas blog.  Sheepish apologies.

That said, as awkward as it is to be a public theologian without a Christmas blog, it’s mitigated, at least a bit, with the delight of privately celebrating the holidays with my extended family, my sister and her husband and sons, with whom we so rarely get together.

They live in Alaska, and it is both expensive and tricky, given schedules and wheelchairs, to reunite on any regular basis. So instead of sitting in front of my iPad, I sat around the table and in front of my fire with my family, which, all told, is as it should be.

Technically it is still Christmas: per usual, we put up our tree up December 23.  It’s still fresh and green—in fact, I think tonight that Else, Karl, and I will light the candles (yes, real ones!) that we didn’t quite get to lighting on Christmas Eve, as is customary at our home.

This, complete with the dog kiester by the fireplace, is my present moment.

So given all of the family and festivities (and dishes and snow and attempts to learn how to ski), the moment of those Christmas texts has passed—maybe a year from now, I’ll recall what I wanted to write!

And Christmas is a moment, is it not?

I cannot sing Silent Night, for I choke up every time.

This year with all of the rising disdain, hostility, and hate toward the very least of these for whom God has especially come, and the unwillingness of the powerful to hear the Good News that their power is lost and their worth anyway is not found in wealth and privilege, I found it all the more difficult to sing Silent Night: sitting in the pews with the darkened lights and the shining hand-held candles (a prudent glow-stick for Karl), shared by tipping an unlit candle to a lit one, I simply decided to let the Communion of the Saints sing the carol while I reveled in the moment of the tune’s gentleness, and tried to harvest its quiet protest and quiet hope and quiet light to steward throughout the year.

Still, that moment is gone, as is the momentary peace that surrounds a person when surrounded by candlelight and lilting choruses.

Tragically, in its place, just a few days after Christmas, came yet again attacks on the extended family of all Christians, the Jews.

Several horrific assaults occurred in New York City alone.

It’s devastating.

With this news, since my sister and her family left just yesterday, I’ve been curled up on the couch reading Hannah Arendt, and her The Origins of Totalitarianism and Eichmann in Jerusalem, Dorothee Sölle’s Suffering, Political Theology, and Revolutionary Patience, and Norbert Lohfink’s The Covenant Never Revoked.

I’ve also been doing some research on anti-Semitic hate crimes.

I was curious, for example, about the hike in attacks; I knew that there was one, but I was curious about how significant.

Admittedly, I haven’t put the research into it that it deserves, but this distinction still is significant: according to the ADL (Anti-Defamation League) in the three years preceding Donald Trump’s inauguration, namely from 2013-16, there were 1,267 hate crimes deemed to be anti-Semitic.

In the three years since his inauguration, namely from 2016 until today, there have been 5,212.

That’s an increase of 3,945 incidents of hate against Jews from one side of Trump’s inauguration to another.

3,945.

That’s 6,479 since 2013.

I am mystified by the relative collective silence of it, not least of all from the pulpits, or on the social media pages of pastors or Christians in general.

Jews are going into hiding, these days, and yet Christians might not even be noticing, maybe because they aren’t yet affected, and maybe because hate has become normal.

Maybe both.

Hannah Arendt is famous for many things: her political insights, her philosophical savvy, her literary skills leave a person pretty much slack-jawed.

But she is perhaps best known for a phrase, a phrase that she coined during the trial of Adolf Eichmann: the banality of evil.

We don’t use the word ‘banal’ very often, so it might be worth a definition: it means trite, routine, unoriginal, dull.

When Arendt used the term, she was referring to Eichmann’s ordinariness.

He was almost boring.

And yet this banal Eichmann played a crucial role in the Nazi system, masterminding and supervising the methods for terrifying, arresting, tormenting, and killing the Jews.

This bland man created evil.

It was this insight of hers, that evil came about through a man who might have just as easily put a person to sleep at a dinner party, that captures the insidious horror of evil: it happens, and we don’t see it for what it is.

It doesn’t mean that we don’t see it.

We do, but we metabolize it as normal.

To be expected.

To be not worthy of rebuke, revolt, or resistance.

The rise of anti-Semitism is occurring concurrent to the rise of nationalism, and consistent with the rise of Trump.

It is aided by a longstanding tradition of Christian hostility toward our Jewish sisters and brothers.

Certain passages in the New Testament hardly help, with many deeply unfortunate instances of overt and latent anti-Jewish rhetoric within them and sloppy or bigoted interpretations spun from them, (countless books have been written about the matter, and various sites—some more questionable than others—address the matter, but many of the links in this Wikipedia article are helpful springboards to learning more about the Bible’s own contributions, coupled with unwelcome interpretations, to the presence of anti-Semitism).

Far less known than it should be in Lutheran circles is Martin Luther’s own disdain of and bigotry toward Jews.

And far too many German Lutherans were far more willing, both by active complicity and silence, to aid and abet Hitler’s regime than is comfortable to name.

We are grateful for the likes of Lutheran pastors and theologians Dietrich Bonhoeffer and Kaj Munk, and those who were inspired by them, people who found their theological allegiance to be stronger than the pull to hateful political personalities and powers.

Christian sisters and brothers, we are in an age where we must recognize that we are being asked—no, really, we are really being asked—whether we believe in Jesus or evil.

Silence in any night, particularly in these days and nights, reflects only complacency, deference, privilege, and urbane politeness, all of which were, not coincidentally, tools of the age of Eichmann.

They are tools of our age too.

They are tools and also reflections of allegiance to any number of gods which are not the God whom we praise on Christmas Eve, or any other day, if we call ourselves Christians.

If your Christian faith means anything, then, anything at all, then now is the time to realize that the Advent texts where John calls out the privileged; the Christmas texts where the poor, hungry, and hurting are promised relief, and where the powerful, the wealthy, and the wielders of harm are told of their defeat; the Epiphany texts which promise that God will be made known even if we’d rather that God not be, all of these texts mean that which they speak.

There is no caveat, no asterisk, that goes with them.

No.

God has no time, no time at all, for hate, for white supremacy, for nationalism, for walls, for privilege, for wealth, and for Anti-Semitism, and if you are a Christian and don’t believe me you aren’t listening to the texts you claim to be yours.

Seriously, there could not be more a time when the phrase “Let those who have ears to hear and eyes to see” could be more apt.

As it turns out, people of Christian faith, we are called to reject anything that foments or creates harm.

Unfortunately, there’s a huge spike of all of that these days

Indeed, especially leading up to and since Trump, and with his blessing, there have been countless groups which have suffered under him and because of his supporters: the poor, women, people of color, immigrants, the ill, the refugees, the disabled, the earth, and the Jews.

In many and various ways, these are all the Chosen People of God.

Jesus is not happy about any of this hateful nonsense, and will have more than a chit-chat with those who support and foster any of it.

But particularly because of the longstanding complicity of Christians in the suffering of the Jews, and because of the historical  relationship between the hate toward Jews and hate toward other groups, and of rising attacks on Jews and the rise of nationalism, all of which we are seeing in real time now (and all the more since Trump was elected), Christians have an increased obligation to notice, to condemn, and, for those who are called to preach, to proclaim our renunciation of any of it precisely because of Jesus.

Who was born a Jew.

And who lived as a Jew.

And who died as a Jew.

~~~~~

3,945 incidents against our sisters and brothers since Trump’s inauguration is 3,945 too many.

Any is too many.

~~~~~

It is a lovely happening that the Christmas Season for Christians coincides with that of Hanukkah for Jews.

Hanukkah recalls the faithfulness of God after the Jews reclaimed and restored the holy temple in Jerusalem. The dreadful king Antiochus Epiphanes had desecrated the Jewish place of worship in powerfully offensive ways, but a revolt initiated by a Jewish priest and his five sons recaptured the temple and, therefore, the traditions and the future of their faith. One of the sons, Judas, became known as Yehuda HaMakabi, namely Judah the Hammer. Some might recognize the name, then, “Maccabees,” which is the series of biblical books retelling the story. A fun fact, by the way, is that the word ‘macabre’ comes from the gruesome violence that the Jews suffered in their fight against Antiochus’ forces.

The celebration of Hanukkah stems from the purification of the temple, a ritual that demanded the purest of oils for the menorah, the sacred candelabra. Only one vessel of holy oil could be found, however, containing only enough oil for one night. Miraculously that singular vial was sufficient to keep all the candles burning for eight nights, long enough for more undefiled oil to be prepared.

A festival to commemorate the miracle of the lights was then instituted, and became Hanukkah.

It is the season of light.

That Hanukkah and Christmas fall near one another, and near the Winter Solstice when the light begins to break in again, may not be all coincidence.

In the last few days, the Anti-Defamation League asks that we protest the rise of Anti-Semitic violence, and that we #ShareTheLight so that we #StandUpToHate.

I invite you to search those hashtags.

I invite you to rebuke evil, to rebuke its normalized banality, and instead to light a candle, to light several candles, to become enlightened about anti-Semitism, to shine a light on it, and then to share the light of love to banish the banality of hate.

~~~~~

Presiding Bishop of the ELCA, Bishop Elizabeth Eaton’s statement about the rise of Anti-Semitism.

The World Council of Church’s Statement on the recent attacks.

A letter from Rev Dr. Chuck Currie, Director of the Center for Peace and Spirituality, University Chaplain, and Assistant Professor of Religious Studies at Pacific University, to students, faculty, and staff expressing solidarity with the Jewish community and safe haven if they feel threatened.

Please feel free to send me more statements from faith communities or leaders, and/or post them in the comments on the blog.

I even told my daughter that I’ve spent a crazy amount of time researching and writing the longest entry I’ve ever posted and therefore, because it’s a schlepp, it’s a real possibility that no one will ever read the thing anyway!

But I’m hoping that at least a few of you give it a skim, and maybe even an extended linger.

I’m trying to tackle the connection between these competing truths: the church needs financial donations to keep it afloat and to keep doing righteous deeds, and these same financial donations have become a false god to the Church, preventing it from preaching and teaching the radical, deep-seated, faith-based claims of social justice and of our tradition’s commitment to call out wealth and the inequity it breeds.

So…it’s long, because it’s a bit of a Thing to think through, since there are more than a few angles, and both nuance and naming are necessary.

But I’m throwing the piece out there in hopes of inviting some conversation, and maybe even some solutions, about what to do if indeed I’m even a little bit right.

Luther was all about calling a thing what it is.

When a person does that, it can get dicey, because there is a fine line between insulting and inspiring.

While I’m not quite yet willing to say that I’m calling a thing what it is, I do confess that I think I’m a little bit right.

I am also a little bit afraid I’ll insult someone.

But I’m hoping instead to inspire conversation.

And maybe some conversion too.

~~~~~

Here’s my working theory:

The primary reason why the Church has avoided boldly preaching and teaching about inequity, privilege, oppression, systemic injustice, racism, sexism, bigotry, nationalism—in short, about anything that concerns social justice—is fear of losing offerings.

Not losing people, not losing our message, not losing the integrity of our purpose, but losing the offerings that the people are bringing, even at the expense of losing our fundamental identity.

Our worry about money is often for good—and sometimes noble—reasons.

But still and even so, I fear that the Church has become beholden to the buck.

~~~~~

Every organization needs financial support: my name is Anna, not Pollyanna, so I get that.

But here’s the confounding piece about being the Church: as people who claim to adhere to the First Commandment (“I am the Lord your God. You shall have no other gods but me,”), the powerful role that dollars play in discerning what we in the Church say and what we do…well, it skims around and flirts a bit with having another god.

The obvious thing of it is, whether we are speaking of the church or any other organization, if weren’t for the donations that people put into the plates, nobody would care a whit how many people would show up, because the point of the organization would be, well, to care about the point of the organization.

Period.

Ideally, anyway, that’s how it should be, right?

Like, if I am a Minnesota Twins fan, say, and want to start a Twins fan club, I’m going to be all about the Minnesota Twins whether they win or lose, even if a Brewers fan sneaks into the club and, while there, tries to woo me from my beloved Twins to Milwaukee’s Boys of Summer with the offering of unlimited Wisconsin brats and beer…

[ahhh…that sounds so good…]

Nevertheless!

My allegiance wouldn’t be compromised by anything, including a donation to the cause (albeit a really enticing one—dang, a good sizzling brat and a crisp dark brew on a summer day at a ballpark…sigh).

Right?

But the more I mull, the more I visit, and the more I read, the more convinced I am that this fear of losing coins in our coffers has dictated what we preach, what we teach, and what we do, more than the fear of the Lord and the freedom of the Gospel.

As but one for-instance, note this blog I wrote a few months back, Mindful of the Risks, a summary of a series of keynotes I gave at a synod assembly, in which I tell of a man in the Q and A time who said: “You know that everything that you just said would get you kicked out of most every church, don’t you?”

Now, I’ve had hunches, I’ve had inklings, I’ve had stirrings, but of all things, it was this book by Anand Giridharadas, Winners Take All: The Elite Charade of Changing the World, that helped me piece it together.

Giridharadas is a journalist, political analyst, and teacher, whose basic premise, one which is rocking all sorts of worlds, is this: the moneyed-albeit-often-well-meaning-elite have amassed not just disproportionate incomes but (and thereby) disproportionate influence.

Now, it’s true, Giridharadas grants, that the non-profits which many benevolent wealthy people create (e.g., the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation) or to which they contribute (hospitals, universities, research centers….churches….) bring good into the world.

But at what cost?

In the secular world, Giridharadas is of the mind that:

the good created and maintained by the wealthy and privileged is done at the cost of collective benefits (roads, schools, environmental protections, universal health care) which could be reaped by way of taxation, but aren’t (because the dollars are donated to particular charities that appeal to the donor, and therefore are restricted to her/his agenda);

the good is defined as good by those powerful and influential enough to donate money to various causes and politicians—even if by other measures it is bad (to my mind, consider the effects of Citizens United);

the need for the good is maintained because the fundamental causes of the bad are left unchallenged, even though the manifestations of the bad are addressed via these non-profits and charity donations;

and the glut of monies available and used to dole out the good depends on the very systems of inequity that create, wait for it, the need for the good.

Not only am I convinced that he is right, I’m convinced that, albeit cut at a different slant, Giridharadas’ words and insights gibe with how things go down in the Church.

We do do good in the Church. We do help people in poverty, who are homeless, who hunger, who are sick.

But we have been and are far less apt to condemn that which causes poverty, homelessness, hunger, and illness, and we have been and are far less apt to condemn systems and contexts that are more controversial: GLBTQIA rights, climate change realities, immigrant rights, economic inequities, and so forth.

It takes, that is, way more courage to preach and teach about social justice, about ‘good’ as defined by the gospel, about the call to pick up the cross and follow Jesus rather than any worldly leader’s agenda, than it does preach and teach about feeding the hungry, and donating clothes to the poor.

Why?

We might say it’s about pastoral care concerns, we might say it’s about finding the right timing, we might say it’s about building trust, but what it really boils down to, as I lay out below, is simple: we don’t want to tick off the people who keep the Church, and most specifically congregations, financially afloat.

Why?

Because the gospel’s idea of what the good is, and what the good news is, isn’t at all the same thing as what the wealthy and privileged think—and have been allowed by church leaders to think—it is.

~~~~~

Giridharadas speaks of MarketWorld.

It’s defined as a tight sphere of elite, wealthy, powerful people who nonetheless are trying:

…to do well and do good, to change the world while also profiting from the status quo. It consists of enlightened businesspeople and their collaborators in the worlds of charity, academia, media, government, and think tanks. It has its own thinkers, whom it calls thought leaders, its own language, and even its own territory—including a constantly shifting archipelago of conferences at which its values are reinforced and disseminated and translated into action. MarketWorld is a network and community, but it is also the culture and state of mind. (30)

The people in this elite enclave aren’t mean-spirited, that is.

They make up a collective culture bent on intentions of doing good.

In fact, they do do good…but with simultaneous intention that they don’t do themselves harm.

With a couple of tweaks, if that doesn’t describe how the church tends to work, then I’ll eat my…well…I’ll eat my ELW.

It’s not a 1:1 compare, I realize, but enough so that some of Giridharadas’ fundamental observations offer some relevant parallels to the Church: MarketWorld and Church both believe that they are doing good things, both depend on an insular way of perceiving the good, both do not want to offend the power-brokers, and both are concerned to protect their ability to do good, as they’ve defined it, from being harmed.

Here’s the paradoxical kicker, though: the very people that each group purports to help is, in fact, harmed by the very way they attempt to do good.

To this point, Giridharadas quotes Oscar Wilde:

Just as the worst slave owners were those who were kind to their slaves, and so prevented the horror of the system being realized by those who suffered from it, and understood by those who contemplated it, so, in the present state of things in England, the people who do the most harm are the people who try to do most good. (8)

So, vis-a-vis the Church, obviously it seeks to bring good in the world.

And obviously it does bring good into the world.

But good intentions and deeds though they are, they are thwarted, in a mind-blowing sort of way, by these same good intentions and deeds.

Raw and base capitulation to dollars, however, is not the driving force here, though.

Instead, far and away the concern to avoid alienating these congregational financial supporters is—just like the goal of doing good in MarketWorld—very much motivated by good intentions. Unfortunately, these good intentions are informed and sustained by trust in misguided, but not malevolent, myths.

So these last several days, using a few crossover insights from Winners Take All, I’ve spent some time sifting some of these myths out.

They’re below, with some “So What Does This Mean?” chaser questions below.

The Pastoral Care Myth

As often as not, when I ask rostered leaders why they are not more forthright in their preaching and teaching about the gospel as it relates to social justice and politics, it takes but a nanosecond before they name their sensitivity to their role as pastoral care givers.

They don’t want their preaching and leadership, no matter how righteous the message of either is, to offend people so much that these parishioners might leave the Church.

If they leave the church, the reasoning goes, they will leave access to broader messages of hope and love and support.

Too, the community of which they’ve been a part will be harmed by their absence.

The whole thought trajectory is noble, has integrity, and I get it.

But at the end of the day, it turns out that the very thing they are afraid of doing—cutting themselves off from providing pastoral care—is the very thing that they do (cue a spin on Romans 7:15-20)

Giridharadas tells the story of Darren Walker, well-intentioned president of the Ford Foundation, and who therefore, as Giridharadas notes, is “in the social justice business.” Of Walker, Giridharadas says that he:

…believes that it is key to “‘meet people where they are’ and ‘not be judgmental.’…When he [Walker] worked in Harlem, it was hard getting parents to bring kids to medical appointments. There was a temptation to judge and criticize: here we are trying to help you, and you can’t even get up off your couch. Walker said he knew that that was not the right approach. He knew they would have their own logic, their own story. ‘You don’t knock on the door and say, ‘you’re a loser. Your a bad…’ You’ve got to meet people where they are….’”

“‘That’s my view writ large,’ he continued. ‘And so where we are meeting them’—he was now speaking of the highly privileged—‘is where they are, which is they actually believe that they are doing good, they are contributing to our economy. They’re contributing to the tax base. They are contributing to philanthropy through their own personal giving and commitments to boards and whatever. So that’s where they are.’

The analogy is telling, because it illustrates how an ethic of not judging that had developed to protect the weak could serve just as well to guard the strong. Meeting people where they are means one thing when applied to a mother with mental health issues in Harlem, juggling three jobs, two kids, and their appointments. It is quite another thing for the private equity tycoon to enjoy the same suspension of judgment. Should he, like the subaltern, really be met wherever he is?” 183-84

That “meet people where they are” phrase, straight out of the quote’s chute?

A key piece of the pastoral leader lexicon.

It’s what Jesus did, it’s said, ‘meeting people where they are,’ which is, in point of fact, true.

Buuuuuttttttt I don’t think, when someone makes this case, that they are thinking about those moments when, say, Jesus upended the tables, or hurled insults like “you brood of vipers,” or told the rich man that he wasn’t going to get into heaven.

In each instance arguably, he met people where they were.

Or Amos (of “You cows of Bashaan” fame, as well as “Hear this, you that trample on the needy, and bring to to ruin the poor of the land….on that day…I will turn your feasts into mourning, and all your songs into lamentations…”), Mary (known not just for bearing Jesus but for these words that, I believe it is safe to assume, she actually meant, “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…”); and again Jesus (when separating the nations, “You that are accursed, depart from me into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels, for I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, naked and you did not give me clothing, sick and in prison and you did not visit me…Truly, I tell you, just as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me…”).

They all, in fact, met people exactly where they were, but not where these people thought that they were.

For that matter, Amos, Mary, Jesus (not to mention Isaiah, Micah, the woman at the well who straightened Jesus out, Paul, etc) also weren’t so particularly interested about “meeting people where they were” if that nebulous place were necessarily determined by the self-perception of the meet-ee, so to speak, rather than by the meet-er who carried the word that these folks had to, even if unwillingly, hear.

It is no exaggeration to say that hundreds of people have suffered or died, arguably, collectively even in this last week, and assuredly thousands over the course of time, because of the Church’s concern to meet people where they were.

Alas, who are the primary ‘people’ in mind to “meet where they are”?

Not the poor, generally, when we are talking about the pastoral care reasons moving us to avoid preaching and teaching social justice.

It’s the rich and the powerful and the influential in our pews whom we don’t want to offend.

But it raises a question, doesn’t it: where is the same concern for pastoral care for the poor and the oppressed?

And, for that matter, the more one fusses with the notion, it becomes clear that in our attempt to provide pastoral care to the privileged by not offending or alienating them, we are actually doing the exact opposite.

As my New Testament professor Mark Allen Powell said of the message of Luke’s gospel, just as the poor need to be redeemed of their poverty and oppression, so too do the rich need to be redeemed of their wealth and privilege.

Rather than our timidity being an extension of pastoral care to the powerful in the pews, it is in fact an abdication of it, for we allow them to worship a false god, and worse, we don’t even let them in on the news.

Quite possibly worse even than that, at the end of the day (or fiscal year), our fear of alienating them has also reduced them and their importance in the Communion of the Saints to their monetary worth.

We have seen them as dollar signs instead of beloved children of God and sisters and brothers in Christ.

It’s also a bit possible that the “meeting people where they are” take is less about meeting people where they are, and more about not meeting them at all.

Conflict is not fun.

Perhaps latently behind the ‘meeting people where they are’ philosophy lies, in fact, self-protection.

It’s not fun to fight.

So let’s avoid the whole thing, and settle for agreeing to feed the poor instead (again, and again, and again, and again, and again).

The Myth of the Prudent Euphemism

Words have power.

We all get that, which is why, when someone asks our opinion about a positively horrible new piece of art, or new outfit, or new Significant Other, that such-and-such or so-and-so surely is… interesting.

Similarly so with ideas, says Giridharadas.

For example, when reflecting on an exchange with Bruno Giussani of TED Talks, he says that:

…ideas framed as being about ‘poverty’ are more acceptable than ideas framed as being about ‘inequality.’ The two ideas are related. But poverty is a material fact of deprivation that does not point fingers, and inequality is something more worrying: it speaks of what some have and other lack; it flirts with the idea of injustice and wrongdoing; it is relational. ‘Poverty is essentially a question that you can address via charity,’ he said. A person of means, seeing poverty, can write a check and reduce that poverty. ‘But inequality,’ Giussani said, ‘you can’t, because inequality is not about giving back inequality is about how you make the money that you’re giving back in the first place.’ Inequality, he said, is about the nature of the system. To fight inequality means to change the system. For a privileged person, it means to look into one’s own privilege. And, he said, ‘you cannot change it by yourself. You can change the system only together. With charity, essentially, if you have money, you can do a lot of things alone.’ 122-23

That’s fascinating.

“Poverty…does not point figures…[but] inequality…flirts with the idea of injustice and wrongdoing; it is relational.”

A check can reduce poverty, but it can’t reduce inequality.

People and systems can get away without being publicly indicted by sermons on poverty, but inequality takes names and calls them out loud.

The names that they take are names we fear will stand up when called, and will walk right on out the church’s door.

Unfortunately, we so rarely know the names of those affected by inequality, and who are therefore stuck in poverty.

As I note in my new book I Can Do No Other, Luther was all about giving alms to the poor, and laudably so.

But when the poor began to call a thing what it was, by calling into question the underlying systems which helped create poverty (as the peasants did, after reading Luther, and arguably thanks to having understood the implications of his theology better than he did), Luther was outraged.

His outrage was fueled by at least two things:

First, he believed in Natural Law, which asserted that all things were as God intended them to be—for this reason, rejecting a system rejected the providence of God;

Second, who helped keep his Reformation afloat? The wealthy who benefitted from the systems which put others into poverty.

The word ‘euphemism’ literally means good (eu-) speech (pheme).

Sometimes (it must be said out loud), even silence is a euphemism.

In trying to do good, we use good speech (or no speech).

Sometimes, however, good speech, euphemisms (silent or spoken), are really cacophemisms—offensive speech.

It’s worth noting that etymologically, the word ‘cacophemism,’ literally means bad (kakos) speech (pheme), but the root word comes from the Proto-Indo-European kakka, which means, um, “to defecate”.

And sometimes, calling a thing what it is means to call out, quite literally, B.S., even of the well-intentioned sort.

The Myth of Giving Preference to Solving Symptoms Rather Than Problems

So poverty is a symptom.

Inequity is the problem.

But it’s been determined most prudent to keep that truth at a whisper, if spoken at all.

Giridharadas interviewed Andrew Zolli, an author and a curator at PopTech.

Zolli, in fact, prefers euphemisms, being persuaded that naming dicey issues only fractures relationships rather than builds them.  “For example,” retells Giridharadas:

…he praised research at Emory University that illustrates how ‘contemplative practice’ can ‘bolster the psychological and physiological resilience of children in foster care,’ which was a lot easier than fixing foster care. He spoke of inflatable bridges and electrical micro-grids that could help communities survive exploding transformers at sea levels continue to rise. He was quick to admit that none of these fixes ‘is a permanent solution, and none routes out the underlying problem they address…You can talk about our common problems, but don’t be political, don’t focus on root causes, don’t go after bogeyman, don’t try to change fundamental things. Give hope. Roll with the waves. That is the MarketWorld way.’ 89

“Don’t be political, don’t focus on root causes, don’t go after the bogeyman, don’t try to change fundamental things.”

In other words, don’t call a thing what it is.

These very same rules-of-thumb? Advice taught to and by pastoral leaders in exactly the same way for exactly the same reasons.

These aren’t, that is, just MarketWorld Maxims.

In MarketWorld or the Church, it’s far easier, safer, and less conflictual to donate monies to good causes, than to question, let alone challenge, the politics, root causes, or fundamental things which create the need for our donations in the first place.

If you do, well, then pretty soon you’re speaking of justice, and social justice, and we can’t have that—turns out in MarketWorld either.

Giridharadas tells of Emmett Carson, a Silicon Valley advisor to entrepreneurs hoping to “do good.”

Carson learned quickly this lesson, because ‘social justice’ was perceived as “taking from the rich and giving to the poor,” or “giving to people who didn’t earn something.”

So, says Giridharadas, “Carson started using the word ‘fairness’ because ‘I’m about getting to a solution…If using the word ‘fairness’ allows us to say something is wrong and needs to be changed, that’s a better word for me. I am about trying to minimize the distinctions and the splits, and creating frames that different people can say, ‘I can buy into that.’”

Giridharadas goes on:

Carson began to understand that if no one questioned the entrepreneurs fortunes and their personal status quo, they were willing to help. They like to feel charitable, useful. They liked the chance to sign off on the help that the poor received, not to have that help organized through democracy and collective action…’If the view is I took it from you, versus you gave it, it changes the entire dynamics of conversation,’ Carson said. Perhaps they had a feeling ‘that I’m being targeted because I’ve been successful, I’ve worked hard, I made it; and because I made it, I am now the target, that you think you deserve some of my success that you haven’t earned.’ 51-52

People love to give, Carson has learned.

Mostly.

But there’s a bit of a relevant asterisk, here, when we speak of such things in the Church.

People do not love to give up their way of life, or to take up their cross and follow Jesus.

Out of perceived necessity, then, the Church has learned to talk around things, rather than talk about them.

Imagine how hard it would be for doctors to treat their patients with the same approach: unable to talk candidly about the detrimental effects of smoking, they address wheezing with inhalers; unable to talk candidly about the implications of high fat and salt in a person’s diet, they speak about antacids; unable to talk candidly about the lack of regular and sufficient sleep, they note the benefits of caffeine.

The Church has become that kind of doctor.

The Myth of Buying Time to Gain Trust

It’s often said, in the Church, that one cannot effect change until trust is built.

The rule of thumb ranges: one year, five years, seven years, twelve years…at the very least, a leader must be in place a significant spell of time before initiating something new.

And it makes sense, and in many ways and cases it bears out.

Moving the flag, changing worship time, having a new liturgy: just thinking about initiating such things even after a decade or two tends to give rostered leaders the shudders.

But when we are talking about naming systemic issues that perpetuate real suffering, real despair, or real death, a true sense of urgency has been lost, or is kept at a comfortable distance.

Hidden behind our desire to inculcate long-developing trust is one manifest truth, and one uncomfortable consequent truth:

a) quick change is uncomfortable, unadvisable, and quite possibly impossible anyway;

b) we are implicitly more comfortable with the in-the-meantime suffering incurred by the Least of These, who are expected to wait patiently for the optimal days/weeks/months/years to pass before the necessary trust threshold will have been met, and before the already comfortable are still more comfortable, enough so to be ready to comfort the afflicted, precisely those whom we are called as Christians to serve.

Soon and very soon…

That these people, in contrast to those in our pews—or at least the powerful ones in our pews—are often nameless and faceless, it’s anyway easier to ask them to ”hold that thought” than it is to ask the privileged in our pews to release their hold.

Turns out that the same sort of maxims hold true in Giridharadas’ MarketWorld.

According to him, referencing conversations with Giussani, “…one does, often but not always, have to keep certain ideas at bay in order to gain hearing.” He quotes Giussani: ”You need to cut some of your moral corners or some of your convictions in order to package your ideas to make them palatable to this kind of environment…”

And then he turns to Daniel Dresdner, who wrote in The Ideas Industry: How Pessimists, Partisans and Plutocrats are Changing the Marketplace of Ideas, “To stay in the superstar rank, intellectuals need to be able to speak fluently to the plutocratic class…If they want to make potential benefactors happy, they cannot necessarily afford to speak truth to money.” 124

Sure, the truth will set us free, but at a huge cost.

If leaders in the Church call out wealth, the inequity that creates it, and the unjust systems that perpetuate it, they simultaneously run the risk of alienating the benefactors, who keep the lights on, pay the salaries, purchase the elements and paraments, and also give money to really important, good, causes.

That’s excruciatingly true.

But sometimes we don’t see, or don’t want to see, that we are imprisoned by false truths.

And even if we do, captivity is far more comfortable than the freedom Christ has promised us.

So the powerful remain captive to their comfort, the Church remains captive to its concern to not perturb the powerful, and the Least of These remain captured in their suffering by the both of them.

The Myth of the Mission Trip/Good Deed Day/Food Pantry Donation Drive

Chiara Cordelli, a political philosopher at the U of Chicago, says that the financial elite “live their life through a sense of themselves as entrepreneurs, as agents of change.”

But according to Giridharadas, “this gung ho attitude about bending the world to their will turns out to be rather temperamental.”

“Yeppers,” says Cordelli, although not quite like that.

Instead, in a more nuanced way, she says that the wealthy love to create change that “makes them feel good–when it comes to building a business, lobbying for certain things, effectively helping some people through philanthropy,” because “then they are agents…they powerfully and intentionally can exercise change.”

But “…when it comes to paying more taxes, when it comes to trying to advocate for more just institution, when it comes to actually trying to prevent injustices that are systemic or trying to advocate for less inequality and more distribution, then they’re paralyzed. There is nothing they can do [so they say]…This is absurd in the sense that it’s a concept of agency that doesn’t make sense philosophically and doesn’t make sense practically.” (260-261)

In other words, the movers and shakers know how to shake and move, unless their own worlds are shaken and moved.

It’s far easier, and far less troublesome, to address a problem on the terms of the problem-solvers, namely the wealthy and privileged, than to actually solve it on the terms of those who are ill-affected by the problem—and the problem-solvers. 38-39

Same thing happens in the Church.

People of means or privilege are enthusiastic about repainting buildings in impoverished places, or stocking a food pantry, or providing medical assistance to remote places with lack of care.

But it is far harder to invite them to evaluate why these opportunities are necessary, how their way of life contributes to them, and then to advocate in the streets and in the voting booth for a different systemic structure, as an expression of gospel living. 

The grounding to evaluate our status, to critically engage the reasons for it, and then to repent of it, is all over our Holy Scriptures.

It’s way easier to see it than ignore it…unless it pays to ignore it.

The gospel news, though, that Jesus is risen, announces to us (as I have said so often before, repeating the words of Walt Bouman), “Now that we know that death doesn’t win, there’s more to do with our lives than preserve them.”

The reality is, we are afraid of relinquishing our lives, and our way of life, in part because we fear that if we do, we will lose our privilege, and might even end up living like the ones we try to help with our well-intentioned, but at best stop-gap, solutions

In fact, worse than stop-gap, our donations arguably perpetuate the needs: if people keep coming to the rescue of the oppressed—people who are oppressed because of systems that oppress them—we also and thereby keep coming to the rescue of the oppressors. 

The oppression won’t stop until the systems which create and allow it are stopped.

The Myth that Numbers Matter Most

Every congregational leader knows of the bane of parochial reports.

Annually, congregations are to send in their numbers, including perhaps most precisely numbers of people in the pews, and numbers of dollars in the coffers.

Once, in fact, when applying to a denominational grant, I was asked how many more people would come to church as a result of the plan, if put into action.

I refused to answer the question, because I honestly didn’t know.

When told that I could not leave that answer blank, I owned up that, in fact, because of the idea being proposed, it was entirely possible that fewer folk would come to Church.

That answer?  Not satisfactory.

I needed to predict an uptick.

Rather than promise what I couldn’t, I pulled my application.

The thing of it is, gospel preaching might, in fact, mean that people will be offended, and people will recoil, and people will leave.

“Take up your cross and follow me” would be a great elevator speech, said no Marketing Professor ever.

The thing of it is, it’s harder to factor in the financial impact of those who aren’t there.

We can only count on, so to speak, we can only depend on—and do depend on—the donations of the people in our pews.

But it is worth nothing that research shows that a significant percentage of those who were in the pews, but left, or those who are not there and never were and don’t show signs of signing up for New Members Classes any time soon, are absent precisely because the Church is not preaching about social justice—peek at references here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here, for starters.

It might be, that is, that if we preach the gospel, some might leave, but more might come.

And it might be that, if we live faithfully, the question of whether more might come or leave is an utterly irrelevant question in the first place.

The Myth that We Should Be Most Concerned About Who Is Already In The Pews

A month or so ago, I presented in Canada, and my host spoke with frustration about the apparent Ultimate Concern of getting bums in the pews.

I cocked my head like adorkable our dog Gimli.

Bums in the pews? There had to be a kinder, more respectful way of making the point.

And then I realized that he was speaking Canadian, and I was hearing U.S. English.

He meant getting butts in the pews.

I heard getting homeless people in the pews.

Getting butts in the pews is a very different agenda than getting bums in the pews.

Jesus, I do believe, would care more about the latter than the former.

The more that we preach a word that enables people to live as they do, the more butts we will see.

The more that we preach a word that frees people to live as God intends them to….well, we’ll lose some butts, but gain some bums.

I‘m fairly sure Jesus would be down with that.

De-mythicizing the Church

Myths always have a bit of truth laced through them, and the ones above are no exception.

But here are some additional facts, and competing truths, that put the myths above in further context:

1. The Church is dependent on benevolent donors. The greater number of donors in our congregations, the greater amount of security we have, and service we can offer.

This security, far from being a bad thing in and of itself, translates into many good things and ways to serve: adequate pastoral and staff compensations, consequent pastoral stability and sufficient staffing, building mortgage payments, updated and kept-up facilities, electricity, printings, mailings, as well as donations to needs in the immediate and wider communities: crucial health, healing, and wholeness ministries near and far happen because of what lands in the offering plate.

2. But paradoxically, given the mission of the Church, if a congregation opts to be bold with the implications of the gospel, not least of all by way of calling out death-dealing systems, and calling into being life-wielding ones, that congregation could very well lose not only donors, but also, potentially, viability.

They could, in fact, cease to exist.

And, consequently, many other righteous ministries (see above) would also cease to exist.

That’s a problem.

3. If a rostered leader speaks with clarity about inequity, if she or he condemns the inordinate power of the wealthy, if the preacher announces that the agenda of the present administration is contrary to Scripture, to the life of Jesus, and to the gospel news that we are freed to be ambassadors of radical life, there is a real risk that that courageous one will be out of a call.

If that person is out of a call, that person cannot (immediately, at least) pay a mortgage, afford groceries, pay for a child in college.

There is real reason for fear and legit prophetic timidity.

That’s also a problem.

4. It is not easy, but easier, to speak to these things at a denominational level.  Conversation and debate occurs at a Churchwide Assembly, and in this sort of setting, it’s abundantly clear that any move to assert claims revolving around social justice are just one person’s agenda, but that of many.

To that end, movements, causes, efforts, advocacy, and resolutions occur more often and more radically as the Church aperture widens.

Locally, however, where the focus becomes clearer, the image then sharpens, and so do the words, the barbs, and the anger.

It’s no wonder that resolutions passed at the denominational level don’t always, and perhaps even often, trickle down to the congregational one.

That’s a problem.

5. Rostered leaders are called to do just that: to lead.  But leading can be very lonely.

Often, deacons and pastors are supported by their communities in avid ways, but if the congregation feels as if their way of life is threatened by proclamation and education, the support wanes, and animosity gains.

It is hard, sometimes, especially during times of conflict generated precisely by fidelity to the gospel, to trust that a person is called to serve the gospel in a community, which means something entirely different than serving the community.

Prophetic isolation is for real.

That’s a problem.

6. All of that said, sometimes life, and life as a Christian, is messy.

I recall that, some time back, the South Dakota Synod came out with a statement that gambling was bad.  And by all objective measures, it is: it leads to poverty, it is tied to addiction, it encourages people to live on false hopes rather than real vocations.

So right and true, but then you try to be the pastor in Deadwood or Lead SD to make that case.

Or, relatedly, our beautiful ELCA statement on creation care mentions, and not in passing, that there is reason to eat less beef.

I was asked to teach on this document at a congregation in South Dakota, and during the class, a hand shot up, and a woman said, her voice quivering with rage: “My family owns a cattle farm West River. Are you telling me that my own denomination is opposed to our family’s vocation and livelihood?”

In related news, she walked out, and I was not asked back.

So how is it that we can announce radical news in a way that does not seem like we are speaking in a vacuum?

How is it that both can be true: that gambling is bad…and yet an entire communal and congregational economy is based on it? Or that especially given the climate crisis, we need to eat more vegetables and less meat…and families—and congregations—depend on livestock for their livelihood?

What Does This All Mean?

It’s complicated.

The whole thing is complicated.

But we have some faith resources to sift a few things out.

The second chapter of Acts (most probably written by the same author who wrote Luke) tells of the day of Pentecost. Here the disciples were huddled in a room, but then the Holy Spirit, in the form of fire, showed herself.

The next thing you know, people of all nations heard the gospel, namely the news that Jesus is risen, in their own languages.

Others, who opted not to see the Spirit at work, assumed that the disciples were drunk.

In fact, living according to the gospel instead of according to the world inspires strange behavior, just as a person expects to see from a drunk person, so we won’t fault them for that misunderstanding.

But note what Peter says to the judgmental crowd:

¹⁴“Men of Judea and all who live in Jerusalem, let this be known to you, and listen to what I say. ¹⁵Indeed, these are not drunk, as you suppose, for it is only nine o’clock in the morning. ¹⁶No, this is what was spoken through the prophet Joel: ¹⁷‘In the last days it will be, God declares, that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams. ¹⁸Even upon my slaves, both men and women, in those days I will pour out my Spirit; and they shall prophesy….

²²“You that are Israelites, listen to what I have to say: Jesus of Nazareth, a man attested to you by God with deeds of power, wonders, and signs that God did through him among you, as you yourselves know— ²³this man, handed over to you according to the definite plan and foreknowledge of God, you crucified and killed by the hands of those outside the law. ²⁴But God raised him up, having freed him from death, because it was impossible for him to be held in its power.

²⁵For David says concerning him, ‘I saw the Lord always before me, for he is at my right hand so that I will not be shaken; ²⁶therefore my heart was glad, and my tongue rejoiced; moreover my flesh will live in hope.²⁷For you will not abandon my soul to Hades, or let your Holy One experience corruption. ²⁸You have made known to me the ways of life; you will make me full of gladness with your presence.’

²⁹“Fellow Israelites, I may say to you confidently of our ancestor David that he both died and was buried, and his tomb is with us to this day. ³⁰Since he was a prophet, he knew that God had sworn with an oath to him that he would put one of his descendants on his throne. ³¹Foreseeing this, David spoke of the resurrection of the Messiah, saying, ‘He was not abandoned to Hades, nor did his flesh experience corruption.’ ³²This Jesus God raised up, and of that all of us are witnesses….

³⁷Now when they heard this, they were cut to the heart and said to Peter and to the other apostles, “Brothers, what should we do?”

³⁸Peter said to them, “Repent, and be baptized every one of you in the name of Jesus Christ so that your sins may be forgiven; and you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit. ³⁹For the promise is for you, for your children, and for all who are far away, everyone whom the Lord our God calls to him.” ⁴⁰And he testified with many other arguments and exhorted them, saying, “Save yourselves from this corrupt generation.”

⁴¹So those who welcomed his message were baptized, and that day about three thousand persons were added.

⁴²They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers.

⁴³Awe came upon everyone, because many wonders and signs were being done by the apostles.

⁴⁴All who believed were together and had all things in common; ⁴⁵they would sell their possessions and goods and distribute the proceeds to all, as any had need. ⁴⁶Day by day, as they spent much time together in the temple, they broke bread at home and ate their food with glad and generous hearts, ⁴⁷praising God and having the goodwill of all the people. And day by day the Lord added to their number those who were being saved.

Upshot:

The Spirit showed up, the corruption of the present generation was condemned, and people lived life in a different way: they shared, they supported, they communed, they praised God, and they had the goodwill of all the people (have you seen this column about the Church living out the Gospel in Minneapolis?).

They did it together.

So, with all of this in mind, I am left to wonder:

What would it take to:

1) Establish a very present benevolent posse of support when a rostered leader opted to preach and teach the implications of the Gospel, to make it clear that no, no, really, the leader was living out her or his call faithfully, and inviting the congregation to do so too?

2) Create a fund of financial support that would assist a rostered leader and, if necessary, the family, in the event of a loss of call?

3) Form a foundation that would tide a congregation over if financially significant people, or a significant number of people with finances, would leave?

4) Re-imagine how we consider congregational financial security? Presently, it is akin to school districts, which provide services calibrated to the tax base of its immediate surroundings.  This leads to abundant inequities in education, and, arguably likewise in congregational stability. Can we come up with a more equitable, and therefore more uniformly secure, budget blueprint for congregations?

5) Reject the numbers game, and embrace the notion that “wherever two or three are gathered…”?

6) Tangibly support families in our congregations who depend on the systems that are changing, or need to be changed?

7) Remind congregations that the separation of Church and State was established to protect the Church from forced religious belief via the State? As long as a congregation does not support a candidate, can demonstrate that its preaching and teaching is consistent with purported core religious beliefs, and that a preponderance of its time is spent with religious activity instead of political activism (ensuring that a supposed community of faith is not a disguised PAC, for example), then speaking to the issues of the day is utterly germane to the purpose of the Church and the call of the gospel.

8) Foster new congregations which see as its fundamental purpose being the presence of Jesus (who had a habit of feeding, healing, welcoming, teaching, encouraging, expressing righteous indignation, exhorting, dying, and being raised) in the world?

~~~

At the beginning of one of his chapters, Giridharadas quotes Upton Sinclair, who said, “It is difficult to get a man to understand something when his salary depends on not understanding it.” (86).

For too long, and for too many reasons (unrighteous and yet really, really understandable ones), the Church has been quite timid to get congregants, and congregations, to understand that the gospel speaks against wealth and privilege, exactly because its ”salary,” so to speak, depends on the congregants not understanding it.

But our salvation does.

Our salvation does.

I am not talking about whether we will be welcomed by Jesus after we croak.

But the Christian gospel is not just relevant for when we die, but while we are living.

And too many people have died, and are dying, because the Church is too often beholden to the power of Geld rather than God.

Let’s call a thing what it is.

And then let’s consider what a new thing could be.

Because what are we Christians about anyway, if not seeing death, rejecting it in all of its clear and nebulous forms, and being ambassadors of resurrection in the face of it?

Now that you know that death doesn’t win, there is more to do with your life than preserve it.

~~~~~

Resources for Clarity and Courage

Mandate for Peacemaking: 1982 Social Statement by the former American Lutheran Church

Visions and Expectations, especially the section on Faithful Witness, pages 15-17

ELCA Advocacy

National Council of Churches Joint Action and Advocacy for Justice and Peace

Pr. Jennifer Butler’s Faith In Public Life

Wall of Us

(Please submit more to me if you have suggestions!)

 ~~~~~

My new book, I Can Do No Other is now released!  Order it on Amazon, or anywhere fine books are sold!

I have Peter on my mind, and that he denied Jesus not once, not twice, but three times.

I have Peter’s denials in my mind and I have his weeping, once he heard that bird, his weeping is in my heart.

These three days, we live them differently than we do the other High Feast of our Christian tradition, namely Christmas.

Christmas we gladly import into our own experience: sweet swaddled babies, images of tenderness and quiet and a surround sound of love.

Let’s recreate that.

Let’s do that.

Let’s be that.

But betrayal and death? Anxiety and grief?

Who wants to vicariously live that out, let alone admit that we do all the damn time?

And so we tend not to.

We hear the stories read on Palm Sunday and we wave our palm branches like we are enacting a play, and we get quiet as we hear how the story both winds down and winds up. We sneak a listen like flies on the wall as the drama of a meal gone simultaneously awkward and deep is told. We wish that Peter could count and stop at two, have a metanoia moment, a “whoops, that was close,” and ‘fess up to his friendship with Jesus. We cringe at the ring of the nails, and we pucker at the thought of the vinegar touching our palate, and we wonder at (and may even whisper ourselves) the wail of Jesus’ feelings of forsakenness.

And then we go and we whip up a feast, and we color and hide eggs, and we lay out our Easter best, and that’s that.

It is best, we’ve latently decided, to keep the story of these three days at safe bay.

It is best to keep it there, and then, and not transpose and transport them to here, and to now.

But when we do that, you see, we deny not only the enduring import of the passion more or less safely rendered in text and music and preaching and table; we also deny ourselves the painful, cleansing weep that Peter sobbed when he realized how he denied Jesus.

Those tears.

Those ashamed, convicted tears that washed his face and washed his soul, searing both with repressed truth that his love for Jesus was true and solid and worthy of trust—when, it turns out, when it was convenient, when it was safe, when it didn’t threaten to harm his life, or his way of life.

See, we’d prefer to deny that we are Peter.

But we are.

Every time that we deny the hungry food, the stranger welcome, the sinner forgiveness, the sick healing, we deny Jesus.

Also troubling?

When we deny them food, and welcome, and forgiveness, and healing, we are denying them their humanity.

Also troubling?

When we deny them that, we are simultaneously denying them our own.

Also troubling?

We deny that all are made in the image of God. 

And (do you hear the bird croon?) therefore, when we deny another their humanity, we deny God.

Babies are easier.

Birds are harder.

Listen to the babies cry before the bird cries out.

Weep.

Then, this Good Friday, stop living in denial.

Below is, confessedly, a repost.

I first published this blog in 2016 to honor Kaj Munk, Danish pastor and playwright, killed by the Gestapo in the dark of the night, and whom the Church commemorates on January 5.

He was a dear friend of my father’s uncle, and so his story, briefly retold here, is poignant for my family on many levels.

I’m reposting it because the first quote from him below references the famous (especially at weddings) 1 Cor 13 (“And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love”) which also happens to be one of the three texts assigned for tomorrow, a Sunday yet in Epiphany, the very season Munk’s Commemeration Day ushers in.

Munk stretches the import of this beloved text to address the dire context in which he preached—one that smacks far more of ours than we might like to acknowledge.

So because the blog was originally written in Epiphany for Epiphany and we are still in Epiphany, and because the text for tomorrow is referenced in the text below, and because Munk’s words were preached then but still preach now, I’m re-upping it one more time.

Munk’s words may wind themselves into the sermon I’m preaching tomorrow at my home congregation; if you are interested, you can watch online here at 10 CT.

I’ve been madly finishing up work on a book manuscript these last two weeks, but hope to have another fresh blog up next week.

Peace to you all,

Anna

_______

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.

Call committees, when sketching out a profile for their next pastor, are awfully drawn to words like these: kind, available, comforting, pastoral, articulate, flexible, intelligent, dynamic, wise, knowledgable, organized, trust-worthy, confident.

Good, solid, wholesome, reliable words.

‘Reckless,’ though?

Reckless never gets scratched off the brainstorm list, because it never gets on one.

Ever.

Nor does ‘rage-filled’ show up the summary adjective for a coveted pastor, even with the word ‘holy’ tacked on.

Ever.

~~~~~~

Kaj Munk, the man who wrote the words above, he was a pastor.

He was a Danish pastor, and playwright, and martyr of the Danish resistance, and according to author Shane Claiborne, Munk wrote these words for a community newsletter not long before he was killed by the Gestapo on January 4, 1944.

The Gestapo assassinated Pastor Munk because he had the audacity to write and preach against the danger, the lies, the intimidation, the cruelty, the threat of the German regime, and had no time for the Danes who were complicit or remained silent.

I grew up hearing about Kaj Munk.

My father’s uncle Søren was a good hunting buddy of his.  They, along with a mess of other men, regularly traipsed about in the land–a plantage, in Danish–of the western shores of Denmark, rifles in hand, hope in heart that each would bring home some tasty creature for their respective tables.

Munk might be best known as an author of several plays, but he also served a small parish in Vedersø, until the night of January 4, 1944, when the Gestapo broke into the parsonage, dragged him away from his wife and children, shot him, then callously tossed his body in a nearby ditch.

The body was found on January 5th.

Resolutely defying Nazi threats, 4,000 townspeople gathered for Kaj Munk’s funeral, and De Frie Danske Newspaper dedicated page after page to Kaj Munk’s life and murder.

When my father was but a schoolboy in Brookings, South Dakota, he and his parents (who had emigrated from Denmark to the US in the early 1900’s) traveled back to the homeland, back to Jutland, back to the lands near the North Sea.  There they passed some time with Søren, a rugged farmer and a gentle, good-humored ox of a man, according to Dad.

One day, Søren, this man with hands as big as hocks of ham, brought my father into the beloved old hunting grounds, through the woods, and to a clearing.  He had something he wanted to show this young American boy.

And finally, there it was, in the clearing: a stone, a Mindesten.

Here stood a monument that Søren and others of Kaj Munk’s hunting clan erected exactly in the sacred space where the men passed countless moments together in glad friendship, in trust, in apparent safety.

Søren, says my father (himself no small man, and his own eyes moistening just enough for this daughter to notice), Søren, this hulk of a farmer, began to sob, tears pouring onto the stone and into the ground where once walked his friend and his pastor Kaj Munk.  And then they went to have lunch in the parsonage garden with Kaj Munk’s widow Lise, who told more stories to my father and his family about the courage of her late husband.

~~~~~

We in the church remember Kaj Munk on January 5th, on the day his body was discovered and recovered.

We in the church celebrate Epiphany, the beginning of the season of God-made-manifest, on January 6.

The conflation of these days is almost too rich with meaning.

These days, Kaj Munk raises any number of questions and conversation points for us in the church, both laity and clergy, not least of all as we stand on the cusp of Epiphany.

His words, which I quoted above, were clearly timely then.

But clearly, and discouragingly, they are still timely now.

The earth is being all the more ravaged, children live in hunger and squalor while others of us feast, ridiculous numbers of people die in senseless gun violence, battles swing forth and loom, lies take hold and root in political rhetoric, complacency runs and wins the day (the top trending search of 2015? Not Paris, not refugees, not drowned Syrian boys, not terrorism, not Black Lives Matter, not climate change, not gay marriage: Lamar Odom).

Clearly, God is not yet fully manifest, fully known.

Kaj Munk’s words still speak, and still need to be spoken.

Laity, the people who come to worship in vast and diverse numbers of communities and congregations, gather because they believe that God has some words to say to them in the here and now.

But words, of course, words are spoken to impact circumstances.

“Dinner’s ready!” “I love you.” “I’m leaving you.” “Are we there yet?” “I don’t understand.” “No.” “Yes!” “I’m pregnant.” “I promise.” “You make me so very glad.” “Amen.”

People come to church to hear words of meaning, words of consequence, words which impact circumstances by manifesting God’s will for God’s people and God’s creation.

Kaj Munk wrote and spoke such words, and the Danish people read and heard them and took them to heart.

He was killed.  The Danes who lived through those dark days stalwartly and proudly continued to tell his story in their own words.

Kaj Munk was not oblivious to the threat: the Nazis were not known for equivocating on their principles or mandates.

Given the clear potential cost, however, of speaking up, Munk could well be forgiven had he protected his life, his station in life, his way of life.

He is remembered, of course, because he didn’t, and because he found the courage–actually, the recklessness and the holy rage –to speak the Word of God, a Word which surely impacted his circumstance, and he hoped would impact the circumstance of his parishioners and those persecuted by the politics of the day.

~~~~~

Pastors today don’t tend to have Nazis eavesdropping on their sermons and pouring over their newsletters.

But pastors can have good reasons to avoid speaking directly, to not name conflictual issues, to leave for the newspapers what could be written about in parish newsletters.

And, many do stay silent.

Can we blame them?

Pastors might have people leave.

Pastors might have people ask them to leave.

Pastors might have people angrily knocking on their doors, might have arguments at council meetings, might have unpleasant annual meetings.

But between January 4 and January 6, Kaj Munk still speaks to us: to clergy and to laity in different ways.

Kaj Munk knew and acted, even to the point of being killed for it, out of this conviction: pastors are not called to serve people–even those in the congregation: pastors are called to serve the Gospel, namely the invitation to come, pick up your cross, and die.

And laity are called to hear and respond to the very same invitation, communicated not least of all by the pastors whom they called for this very purpose.

The weird thing is, we Christians call that “come to die” thing Good News.

We Christians call that Good News, because we believe that God has freed us from fear, and freed us for living….but a distinct sort of living: As named and called Christ-ians, we serve the living God who bids us to speak honestly, to resist, to act recklessly, to engage in holy rage where all but God is manifest.

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 floating the waters, 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 life and hope.

~~~~~~

The season of Epiphany dwells on stories that make God manifest.

To preachers, I say this: Kaj Munk mentors clergy to be bold, to be reckless, to be enraged in the name of God as we speak the Word of God. He reminds them of the cost of our calling, and he reminds us of its freedom.

To laity, I say this: Kaj Munk mentors parishioners to hear the Word, to be inspired by its boldness, its recklessness, its holy rage.  He reminds them to embolden the clergy, to welcome their Words, which are God’s Word, a Word which calls us to be relentlessly dedicated to the Least of These, to advocate for the Least of These, to act on behalf of the Least of These, and to die for the Least of These too.

January 4 Kaj Munk was murdered.

January 5 Kaj Munk’s body was discovered.

January 6 is Epiphany.

Perhaps today we can dwell on the cost of his life in the wake of his death.

Perhaps tomorrow we can dwell on the despair found by the ditch, and the hard knowledge that speaking truth means engaging risk.

Perhaps on Wednesday, Epiphany, we can dwell in the Word, and commit to speaking it and making it manifest recklessly, with holy rage, and in full conviction that death is real, life is real-er.

Perhaps we can strive to trust that we Christians are stewards and ambassadors of the Gospel, be it in pulpit or in pew or in the plantages of our lives or the lives of those who would otherwise be forgotten.

Perhaps in his story we can find inspiration, courage, and freedom: the very thing that the Nazis, that fear, seek to kill.

Murder. Discovery. Epiphany.

Holy, holy, holy days, these three.

____

Find upcoming group retreats at the Spent Dandelion here!