In
the time of Jesus, Augustus Caesar and Tiberius Caesar were the undisputed
kings, sovereigns, rulers. So it is a
curious thing that we come to this time in the liturgical year, the end of the
liturgical year, and reference it as Reign of Christ or Christ the King
Sunday. Jesus was certainly not the king
in his time, made undeniably clear by his arrest, torture, and death.
Common to the Jewish
story was an uneasy relationship with even their own kings. For God alone was king, ruler,
sovereign. As a result, claims to the
throne immediately created a Jewish countercultural narrative where pharaohs,
kings, and caesars were imagined as unseated for their cruel, wicked, and
violent practices and replaced by a God of definitively different values. Hebrew
Scripture is replete with stories of how the Jewish people negotiated this
reality—Moses before Pharaoh, Daniel in the lion’s den, Esther in the royal
court, Jeremiah challenging the royal and religious elite—all risked their
lives to speak with a strong voice and join hands with those laid low, those
vanquished and conquered, or put under threat by the rulers of their time.
Curious then, that in
all three years of the Revised Common Lectionary, the Gospel passages chosen
for Reign of Christ or Christ the King Sunday are uncharacteristic for those of
a king. In Matthew, in Year A, Jesus
sits as judge over the nations and tells them they are only welcome in the
kingdom as they met the needs of those who are naked, hungry, thirsty, and
those thrown into prison. This is the
character of our king, not unlike the God who chose Hebrew slaves over Egyptian
taskmasters, who cried like a fountain on behalf of the poor when the king had
aggrandized the wealthy and powerful. In
Years B and C of the liturgical calendar, we read passages like Johnny read for
us today. They are the stories of
Jesus’s betrayal and crucifixion.
This is your
king. Much like 1.1 million Jews during
his time, Jesus was tortured and executed through crucifixion. What
are we to make of that? How are we to
respond?
The apostle Paul,
writing out of his context as a faithful Jew, responds by saying that he
preaches not Christ triumphant, not Christ with power over, not Christ doing as
Caesar does, but Christ crucified, Christ the defeated, Christ the
vanquished. In so doing, Paul remembers
a long tradition that is not about ladder climbing, or grasping and clutching
at power over others, or even “winning.”
Paul remembers a God who chooses Hebrew slaves over Egyptian
taskmasters, the brave choices of Esther to protect a conquered people, and Hananiah,
Misha'el, and Azariah who are better known by their Babylonian names Shadrach,
Meshach, and Abednego. Those three are
bound and thrown into the fiery furnace for refusing to bow to the image of
King Nebuchadnezzar II, king of all of Babylon.
They worshipped the king of a different character.
I want to make it
clear that all of these pharaohs, kings, rulers, and caesars did not see
themselves the way the Jews saw them. They
saw themselves as the protectors of their people, the Father to many nations,
chosen by gods or God to rule. In the
Priene inscription at Actium, the military victory of Octavian Caesar is
referred to as “the gospel.” Octavian is
referred to as Augustus, “the one to be worshipped” and, ten years before the
birth of Jesus, Octavian is referenced as the savior, his birth heralding the beginning
of all time. Caesar Augustus was known
as the son of god, the prince of peace, the kind and benevolent father of the
fatherland.
This is the way of
cruel conquerors. They make general
allusions to their benevolence and charity to the masses, their love for their
people. Even their violence and war are
characterized as loving and kind and just.
The prophets, meanwhile, call pharaohs, kings, and caesars into account
by naming the specifics, remembering historical pain, unmasking hypocrisy, and speaking
out of a particularity which does not allow the Powers-That-Be to get away with
broad, inclusive, decorative language which ends up being empty. When Paul preaches Christ crucified, he is
not only calling people of faith to a different way of being but he is also
indicting the cruelty and savagery of Caesar.
However difficult or uncomfortable, whatever trouble it might get him
into, Paul wants the truth told about what is happening to the Jews in First
Century Rome. You are not the benevolent
father of the fatherland. You are the
crucifier of the Jews, the one who rapes and pillages our people, the one who
pales in comparison to the one Jews know sits on the throne, the King and
Shepherd of Israel.
Particularity, when
it comes to inclusion--love, and justice, matter. We know this in our primary
relationships. My oldest, Jacob, knows
that I love him when I try to learn the language of computer software and how
he put his latest project and make a concerted effort to visit him and Consuela. Abe knows I love him by my willingness to
listen to his efforts in emotional intelligence and leadership and let him know
that I see him when he is trying to be fair as he negotiates life between me
and his mom. Sophia knows I love her
when I read her latest poem, listen to her favorite podcast, when I seek her
out for play slapfights, and when I seek out long car rides with just the two
of us. I could say I love all of my
kids. But they are listening, wondering,
knowing that I live out that love in my willingness to do hard work on our
relationship—in particularity.
Churches can also do
this. We are notorious for it. In my work as a Healthy Congregations
Facilitator, I have historically tried to help congregations develop words and
mission statements that distinguish their identity and work. One congregation wanted to use the word
“inclusive” believing that so many of the other churches in their area were the
opposite of inclusive. But when we
turned to how all of those other churches defined themselves, one of the
primary words they all used was “inclusive.”
They wouldn’t say inclusive of what but I asked the congregation to
think about that. Maybe these other
congregations were inclusive of young families, different kinds of music, maybe
even different cultures, all things the “inclusive” church struggled with, but
seemingly, every church in a 60-mile radius thought of itself as inclusive—in a
general kind of way.
Let me give you
another example. In 2001, the United
Methodist Church began a what it referred to as a welcome and a call with the
identifying words: “Open Hearts. Open Minds.
Open Doors.” But here was the
problem. Open to what? Open to whom?
To my disappointment, the church that my uncle who led Chaddock
Children’s School, was a part of, the church my mom belongs to, and the church
so many of my best colleagues led out and are a part of, fractured not so long
ago by the way some people defined those words.
Because while the whole church uses the welcome and call “Open
Hearts. Open Minds. Open Doors” there are some members of that
blessed church who did not believe that should include the LGBTQ+
community. And for many years, the
United Methodist Church had contentious fights that led to fracturing. When inclusive means “bland vanilla,” it
actually means nothing, has no teeth or bite, is really non-offensive, but then
can intentionally and unintentionally leave many knowing outside of the circle
knowing what the message is.
“Life is messy,” my
Pastoral Care professor, Peggy Way used to say, “and church is coming to the
table to talk about the impossible things.”
Because we are all held in the particular, detailed love of God for us. Even now, God is recognizing that the little
scar that you have right behind your ear, God loves that.
Any number of
churches I have served, some that have chosen to walk the journey of “Open and
Affirming, often want how that is phrased to signal something more than the
LGBTQ+ community so some people will not be offended. They would like a blanket, more general
statement, which conveys inclusion for everyone. But my concern, in using glittering
generalities, is that when we say “all” what we really mean is that we want to
avoid messy history, difficult conversations, the grit and grist of courageous
leadership which calls us to be particular.
I often try to
explain it in this way. Tracy and I
regular tell each other we love each other in hellos and goodbyes and sometimes
throughout the day. “I love you,” is her
text to me. “I love you too,” is my text
back to her. But when we really want to
capture each other’s attention, there are words she says to me or I say to her
that let each other know, “No, now I’m really serious. Pay attention.” Or . . . I could sweep and mop the house . .
. which she knows is not a value of mine so it is something I do to bring her
peace of mind. I could say to her, “You
know, TM (Tracy Marie), you are really, really beautiful.” And she might smile back and say, “Thank
you.” But then what happens when I would
say, “And you know, there are many beautiful women out there your age?” Isn’t that wonderfully inclusive? And could get me killed? And she is really, really beautiful and the
most beautiful woman I know.
Or I could say, “I
love you,” in one of those texts, and say, inclusively, “But you know, as a
pastor, I have to love everybody.” My
love for her now loses a grit, an indication of my devotion and solidarity for
and with her. And I would duck and run
for cover after saying this.
Our
love is not called to be bland and general and vanilla. Our love, as the people of God, is meant to
be spicy, and creative, and detailed and not tied to winning or advancing or
power over. Miriam and Moses knew
that. Esther knew that. Shadrach, Meschach, and Abednego knew that. Paul knew that. We should enjoy flavor.
And
all of that shows our intent to grow spiritually because we all know we are in
process with these messy, uncomfortable things.
They show our direction, our intent to go and grow deeper.
In
the same way, the land and water acknowledgment made reminds us that our
history has not been without its own violence and conflict. And that we must repent of that, repair what
we can, be on a different path to join hands with the conquered, too often
vanquished, people who would be forgotten unless we intentionally remembered
the particularity of our place.
My
hope then is that these things become so rote, so ordinary, that they get deep
within us so that we cannot live life without the knowledge and wisdom of
them.
There
is one other thing I do every week because I want it to be a part of us. And the absolutely wonderful things is that I
have not only had children repeat it to their parents knowing what courageous
thing they had to do at school but also had young couples repeat it in their
wedding vows. Whenever we have a
children’s sermon, I say to them, “We will shout this out because we need to
practice speaking with a strong voice, even when we are scared or shaking in
our boots. And, we need to stay
connected, touch feet, to remember that we won’t make it alone. We need each other.” And children in churches I have served have
said things to their mom like, “And then I remembered, when Josie, was being
picked on by my friends, that I was supposed to speak with a strong voice. Because Josie and I are connected.”
And
in one moment in time, the particularity of love issues forth, and some crazy
thing I did in worship matters, even when we boringly repeat it thousands of
times. For that moment in time, what I
do with you all doesn’t feel like it is wasted or useless but actually makes me
believe that the reign of Christ might have a chance in our world. Speak with a strong voice, Daniel,
Esther. Stay connected, Corinthians,
Ephesians. Maybe it has worth? Amen.
No comments:
Post a Comment