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Since
this will soon get a little heavy, perhaps we should begin
a little light ... like with a guy named David who, much to
his surprise, received a parrot for his 40th birthday.
The parrot, himself, was fully grown, with a bad attitude
and a worse vocabulary. Every other word was an expletive.
Those that weren't expletives were, to say the least, rude.
David tried to change the bird's attitude by saying polite
words, playing soft music and doing anything he could think
of to set a good example. Nothing worked. So he yelled at
the bird and the bird yelled back. Then he shook the bird,
but the bird just got more angry and profane.
Finally,
in a moment of desperation, David put the parrot in the freezer.
For a few moments he heard the bird squawk, kick and scream.
Then there was quiet ... nary a sound for 30 seconds. Fearful
that he might have hurt the bird, he quickly opened the freezer
door. Whereupon the parrot stepped out onto David's extended
arm and said: "I believe I may have offended you with
my rude actions and language. I will endeavor at once to correct
my behavior. I am truly sorry and beg your forgiveness."
Astonished
by the bird's change of attitude, David was about to ask what
accounted for the change, when the parrot continued: "Might
I be so bold as to ask what the chicken did?"
The parrot's
assumption was clear, namely, that the chicken must have done
something ... indeed, that somewhere in our far-distant or
very-near past, we all must have done something ... that nobody
gets fried or frozen for no reason ... and that whatever "big
chill" we feel, including the chill of the universe,
can be traced (at least, in part) to problems of our own making.
To be
sure, there was a time (in my youthful naivete) when I equated
personal perfection with divine protection, thinking to myself:
"If I am a very good little boy and say my prayers nightly,
and brush my teeth daily, God will never let life double cross
me." But it didn't take many years to learn that even
the innocent can suffer, and that goodness ... while being
a most fruitful way to live ... would offer me no immunity.
So maybe
the chicken did do something wrong and paid the price. But
maybe the chicken did absolutely nothing wrong, yet paid the
price anyway.
One Friday
afternoon, Jesus died (hanging from a crude Roman version
of a yardarm). And the guy hanging next to him said: "He
doesn't deserve to be here. He hasn't done anything wrong."
But for as many times as I read the gospels, nobody ever steps
up and says: "Oh my gosh, we've made a terrible mistake.
Let's get him down while there's an ounce of breath in him
and a smidgen of decency in us."
No, I
keep waiting for someone to say that. But no one ever does.
So he keeps on dying ... year after bloody year. And neither
David, the parrot, or Billy Ritter knows why. Oh, we theologians
go to work and dust off all the old theories.
- The
Romans wanted him dead because, alive, he was a stick of
unlit dynamite to a fragile peace, in an all-but-ungovernable
province.
- The
Jews wanted him dead because, when they gave him their litmus
test for an authentic messiah, the results kept coming up
pink instead of blue.
- God
wanted him dead because somebody, somehow, needed to pay
something for all those horrible things the rest of us did
... and continue to do ... out there in the "far country,"
where we have continuously covered ourselves in pig manure.
As workable
explanations of why such a good man died, there are themes
and variations that can be played on all of the above. And
depending on the day (or the assigned text), I can preach
any one of them ... or poke holes in any one of them. Which
is my gut-level-honest way of saying: "Take with a grain
of salt anybody who reduces the crucifixion (and the incredible
mystery that surrounds it) to a sweet, simple slogan."
Ernest
Campbell suggests (correctly, I think) that the underlying
miracle of the gospel is that God remains kindly disposed
toward us when we have given Him every reason not to ... to
the point that nothing (including death, Paul says) shall
be able to separate us from God's love.
By whatever
theory of atonement you want to offer ... and if you are interested,
I can document five ... the death of Jesus is part of God's
work in reconciling the world unto himself. And since you
and I have not yet been able to reconcile our own families
... our own relatively-miniscule and (at least) marginally-compatible
families ... you can see the incredible job God has on his
hands. So cut him some slack, already.
"Greater
love has no man than this," said Jesus, "than to
lay down his life for his friends." Which he uttered
during his final, farewell dinner. Meaning that, at that hour,
Jesus felt that his dying was somehow going to increase the
reconciling ... was somehow going to bring people closer to
God ... closer to him ... closer to each other ... than had
he said:
"It's
turning ugly, friends, let's get ourselves out of here."
(or)
"It's
turning ugly, friends, let's set up a war room here."
No, insofar
as he could see the cross before him, he went voluntarily.
What's more, he implied that we should consider doing so also.
Which I find to be the harder part. Not receiving his death,
but replicating it.
Are
ye able, said the Master, to be crucified with me?
Yea,
the sturdy dreamers answer, to the death we follow Thee.
Earl Marlett
wrote it. We just sang it. Most of us love it. Few of us do
it. And even though Jesus asked it ... of James and John,
you will remember ... the question remains: "Does he
still desire it?"
As I told
you a few years ago, there was a day in my life when "dying
for Jesus" had a rather nice ring to it. I was young
... idealistic ... unencumbered ... unmarried. I had no responsibilities,
members or mortgages. "Give your life to Jesus,"
was the way the preacher put it then. Which sounded so easy
that night by the campfire. The lake was calm. The embers
were glowing. The candles were bobbing on the water. The stars
were brilliant in the skies. Neither the songs nor the scene
could have been more perfect. You could be in love with Jesus
and in love with the girl standing next to you, without knowing
either one.
"My
life for Jesus?" Of course. Where shall I give it up?
Over there on the hill? Fine! As a martyr for the faith? Fine!
Bow my knee to the emperor ... kiss the ring of a pagan goddess
... renounce my Savior to save my own skin? Never! Only Jesus.
Anywhere with Jesus. Anything for Jesus. A firing squad? If
need be! Ready ... aim ... fire. Smoke clears. Body slumps.
Strong men cringe. Widows weep in the afternoon. People come
to read the monument erected on the site. Many pause for pictures.
"Stand over there by the plaque, Jimmy, so I can take
your picture on the spot where Billy Ritter died for Jesus."
Except
it never happened that way. It seldom does. "Drink the
cup with Jesus?" Why not? I started out thinking I could
drink it all. From the brim to the dregs. To the very last
drop. But nobody ever asked me to drink it all at once. Instead,
I've been sipping on that cup for 36 years. It's called "committee
meetings." It's called "raising the budget."
It's called "year end reports for the Bishop." It's
called "what are we going to do about the church kitchen?"
It's called "church members who would rather give less
and staff members who would rather earn more."
But that's
all right. Because there are people who die for Jesus all
the time that I want no part of. Those include the folks who
follow preachers who are as crazy as they are devoted. So
after listening to fiery sermons, they play with snakes ...
drink poison ... or set suicidal fires. First they kill their
children. Then they kill themselves. Who knows why they believe
the "madness" that has been preached to them as
"gospel?" But they do. And, in so dying, they take
comfort in believing themselves to be "true martyrs for
the faith." They are dying for Jesus. But I want no part
of them.
Others,
even in this day, strap on battle gear and storm some village.
Or maybe they fill a bottle with gasoline and lob it in the
general direction of a passing bus. They know they are engaging
in risky behavior. But even if they die, they believe they
will have advanced some particular slice of Christianity,
often against an opposing slice of Christianity (as in Northern
Ireland). I suppose they are dying for Jesus, too. But I want
no part of them, either.
On the
other hand, I admire people who love both life and the Lord
of life, and who (in response to a calling or a need) place
themselves in physical jeopardy for their convictions or their
comrades. Who am I talking about? I am talking about soldiers
on the line ... .police on the street ... missionaries in
the field ... preachers in the city ... people who, by dint
of occupation and location, cannot escape the realization
that one day they might go to work and not come home. For
their work asks of them more than anyone should have the right
to ask of them ... unless the one doing the asking is Jesus.
I admire
those people. I would like to think I am numbered with those
people. Or that I could be, should the hour present itself.
But one never really knows, does one ... until the hour presents
itself.
We are,
biologically speaking, self-preservationists. It's bred into
us. But, from time to time, we are something more. For I believe
that we carry the Imago Dei (the image of God) in us. Which
means that I believe that the "something" which
is more sacrificial than self-preservation ... the "something"
that is capable of laying down one's life for one's friends
... well, that's bred into us, too. Can I prove it scientifically?
No. Have I seen it pastorally? Many times over.
I know
it happens parentally. Over the years, I have seen a number
of children suffer. And virtually every time a child suffers,
I have heard a parent say: "If only this could be happening
to me instead of my child." I have also seen a fair number
of children die. And virtually every time a child dies, I
have heard a parent (grandparent ... godparent ... sometimes
even an unrelated adult) say: "If only it could have
been me."
What's
more, I have seen people risk their lives ... pushing or pulling
someone out of harm's way ... saving them from trains, cars,
falling girders or raging waters. And I have heard tell of
people who fell on grenades, explosives and pipe bombs that
were not so much thrown at them, but managed to land on a
piece of terrain near them.
Did
they plan to do that?
Did
they think about it at the time?
Would
I do it?
Do I
know that for sure?
I think
such actions may come easier to Christians than other people.
Because our faith tells us that while death is the "real
deal," death is not the "big deal" (as in the
sense of the "impossible-to-overcome deal"). From
time to time, I find myself thinking about those people who
almost died, but didn't ... yet who came sufficiently close
so as to experience some of the things which allegedly followed
dying. You've heard about them. I am talking about the out-of-body
visualizations ... the narrow tunnel ... the rapid movement
through the narrow tunnel ... the emergence before a Being
of Light ... the rapid-fire life review ... those sorts of
things. But the thing I keep coming back to is that the people
telling these stories look and act, from that point forward,
as if death really is no big deal, and that they can go further
with Jesus ... bearing more for Jesus ... facing more on behalf
of Jesus ... because, even should it end for them as it ended
for Jesus, but it wouldn't be that big a deal. I mean, if
you have already been permitted a peek on the other side of
the mountain, you know it's going to be all right.
That being
said, I don't think Jesus is looking for people with a death
wish to sign up for death squads. So what might "bearing
the cross" really mean to a passionate lover of life?
Does it mean we all paint targets on our chests, proclaiming
to the world:
Hit
me! Hurt me!
Spitefully
persecute and abuse me!
Don't
be ridiculous. Jesus told his friends that, in addition to
being innocent as doves, they ought also be wise as serpents.
Jesus encourages us to be alert and astute ... calculating
and careful ... street smart and savvy. "But do not close
your heart," he added ... "even once, if you can
help it." That's the key. Cross bearing is not letting
the guard-you-keep-up get in the way of the heart-you-keep-open.
In short, cross bearing is being vulnerable to everybody that
God carries on his heart. It is standing up for principles
that get broken and people that get broken. Perhaps it is
even "wearing one's heart on one's sleeve" ... which
is an anatomical reconstruction sometimes associated with
liberals, but is (in reality) normative physiology for all
Christians.
There
is a movement in our country today ... long overdue, some
say ... that talks about the need to set boundaries.
Boundaries
concerning interpersonal behaviors, as in: "You can
touch me there, but you can't touch me here."
Boundaries
concerning interpersonal expectations, as in: "You
can ask this of me, but you cannot ask that of me."
Clergy
are counseled to set boundaries for their parishioners, lest
their parishioners get too close. We get all kinds of wonderful
counsel on that score.
Plan
your work. Then work your plan. Tell them what you can do.
Tell them what you can't do. Sundays, yes. Wednesdays, no.
Three o'clock in the afternoon, yes. Three o'clock in the
morning, no.
It's called
"professionalization." Which is always good. Seldom
bad. Which I understand. And try to practice. Just like I
tried to practice the rule about not letting too many people
interrupt my pre-arranged agenda for the day. Until I realized
that most of my ministry was taking place in the interruptions.
Drawing
appropriate boundaries. Maintaining appropriate distances.
Setting appropriate limits. You have to do it. Otherwise,
life will eat you up ... work will eat you up ... churches
will eat you up ... friends and family will eat you up. Even
Jesus was not immune from such counsel.
Come
apart, Jesus. Withdraw and separate, Jesus. Disconnect and
detach, Jesus. Get away from Jesus, all you little kids
... all you bloody women ... all you hungry men. Can't you
see that Jesus is tired?
Boundaries!
They are time-saving ... schedule-saving ... health-saving
... sanity-saving. Most people consider them critical to a
therapeutic way of living. But one thing they are not. They
are not the way of the cross.
*
*
I trust
you noticed that a new law went into effect the other day.
If you are driving on a multi-lane highway and you happen
upon a police officer ticketing (or assisting) someone on
the shoulder, you must vacate the right-hand lane. I am told
this grows out of the fact that a number of police officers
have been killed by passing motorists. And while it will certainly
cause some monumental tie-ups on I-75 next summer, if it saves
anybody's life, it will probably be a good thing. I understand
the principle.
Give
trouble a wide berth.
Keep
passersby passing by.
It makes
good sense on the highway. But only on the highway.
*
*
"Is
it nothing to you, all ye that pass by? Behold and see if
there be any sorrow, like unto his sorrow."
*
* * * *
Note:
For those seriously interested in pursuing the issue of "Atonement
theology," the classic text still discussed is entitled
Christus Victor by Gustav Aulen. But almost any survey
of Christian doctrine discusses the differences between Christ
the victor, Christ the ransom, Christ the sacrificial lamb,
and Christ the heroic example. For a short discussion, see
Paul Laughlin's Remedial Christianity: What Every Believer
Should Know About the Faith.
As concerns
other background reading that was exceedingly helpful, let
me express my gratitude to Ernest Campbell and a marvelous
essay entitled "What a Friend We Have in Yahweh"
and to Richard John Neuhaus and his recently-released Death
on a Friday Afternoon.
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