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Moving Out, Moving In
Fritz Bogar • August 15, 2018
Moving is hell. But it is not punishment. Neither God nor the Devil has any need to afflict us during a move. There may be the occasional annoyances orchestrated by junior demons, but experienced tempters know when to step back and watch (so says C. S. Lewis). Moving is hell. But it is a hell almost entirely of our own making. Like Jacob Marley we have forged, link by link, the chains that now bind us. The physical challenges, the emotional assaults, and the spiritual anomie all are rooted in choices we have made over years, or even decades.
Recently Ann and I had begun seriously contemplating moving out of the Columbia Seminary home provided for us. We loved our house, our neighborhood, and our proximity to CTS and our friends on faculty and staff. But Ann had always wanted a house of her own – and neither of us is getting any younger. Our reasoning was straight forward: someone else – a new professor and family, for instance – should benefit from a residence in one of the excellent school districts in the state (as we did with Gabe). In addition, mortgage rates had begun climbing. Now seemed like the right time. With the help of some realtor friends, we made our way through the morass of home buying, visiting and evaluating potential sites, making offers, and finally closing on a townhouse nearby.
Our move seemed so simple at the beginning. We were not downsizing appreciably. Since the new is only 4 miles from the old, we thought we might simply transfer much of our stuff from one to the other, skipping the packing step. None of it really worked the way we envisioned it. New kitchen cabinets took some time and are only now receiving finishing touches. Comcast TV and internet was supposed to be easily installable, but instead required service visits. My car flashed an engine light and required me to spend a morning and then a day waiting for repair. While square footage is comparable, the space is allocated so differently that simple transfer was not realistic. After establishing patterns over 13 years, now we have to rethink what goes where. Fortunately, we have leniency from CTS and can take whatever time we need.
The problem with any move is, candidly put, stuff – the stuff we have accumulated almost imperceptibly over the days and years. Contrast Jesus, who sent out the Twelve and “ordered them to take nothing for their journey except a staff; no bread, no bag, no money in their belts; but to wear sandals and not to put on two tunics.” (Mark 6:8-9). Jesus warned his auditors that nothing is more spiritually dangerous than the stuff with which we fill our lives, that possessions possess us, “for where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” (Matthew 6:20).
Our move has revealed a side to me that I do not like to acknowledge, and manage most of the time to keep even from myself. I have too many books, too many movies, too many CDs. I have too many clothes. We keep too much food in our large refrigerator and our walk-in pantry. I am a model of socially acceptable excess. I have become skilled in finding ways to fit more and more into diminishing space, while ignoring any reasonable divestment. Beneath a thin façade of moderation is an indulgence and glut that cannot be pleasing
to God.
Theologically speaking, moving is a call to repentance, an invitation to change our lives, an opportunity to turn
from what burdens us, and instead, to simplify our lives. I for one intend to answer that call.
Fritz
Respectability is a subtle master. As long as one travels the middle of the road the guard rails on the left and the right are scarcely noticed. It is safe, comforting, and even alluring to be among so many fellow travelers. There is no obvious constraint; only the gravitational pull realigning us to a broad conformity. Go along to get along. Should one be tempted to step out of line, to go one’s own way, to question what has already been answered, to challenge conventionality, there are only two possible outcomes: surrender or marginalization. The problem with respectability is that it is anchored tightly to the ephemeral and the superficial while presenting itself as permanent and foundational. Respectability once required women to keep their ankles covered, men to be the head of the household, and children to be seen but not heard. The custodians of respectability were horrified when four mop-tops from Liverpool invaded America (and it’s all been downhill ever since). It was once perfectly respectable to speak of dark-skinned people as brutes and savages, homosexuals as mentally ill perverts, and women as homemakers. Some attitudes and actions we can simply dismiss as quaint expressions of a by-gone era; others continue to reverberate to our time constricting our imaginations regarding what is decent, just, and virtuous. Jesus cared nothing for the canons of respectability in his own day. He would not be fenced in by guard rails designed to keep the good in and the bad out. Jesus purposely transgressed social boundaries, associating with the poor, touching lepers, including women in his entourage, embracing children. He confronted the pious, challenged the hypocrisy of the ruling clique, and exonerated sinners. Jesus did not soft-pedal the demands of his gospel in order to be more appealing. "If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” (Mark 8:34) "Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself, cannot be my disciple. Whoever does not carry the cross and follow me cannot be my disciple . . . none of you can become my disciple if you do not give up all your possessions.” (Luke 14:26-27, 33). All of this came at a cost: opposition, rejection, humiliation, execution. That’s what respectability does. Like Jesus, Paul also flaunts the scandalousness of the gospel. He knows well the inherent unbelievability of the message of a crucified Messiah. Ordinary common sense dictates that a crucified person could not be the King of the Universe. It is and always remains foolishness and a stumbling block, Paul insists. But however outside the realm of respectability, this claim is in fact the truth and the power of God. The more I read the Bible the more I think that the respectability I was raised in and to which I have done my best to conform is not only not the gospel, but is actually a detour from discipleship. I wonder if following a crucified Messiah may require a different path, outside the guard rails, where being polite and nice, where fitting in and avoiding a scene are not the salient virtues. Perhaps naming Jesus as Lord is a grace-filled (and terrifying) opportunity to finally be free of this respectable world and instead, to serve as agents of a new creation yet to be born. Fritz
At dawn on April 9, 1945 the pastor and theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer was hanged by Nazi authorities for participating in a conspiracy to assassinate Adolf Hitler and overthrow the government. He was 39 years old. Bonhoeffer had been incarcerated for two years, mainly in Tegel prison in Berlin, and then briefly in Buchenwald, and finally at Flossenburg. He left behind a legacy of academic work, treatises, letters, and diaries – 16 volumes in the standard English and German editions - as well as international friendships across Europe, England, and America. His theological work was original, rooted in his practical experience as a pastor and instructor, and tantalizing in its suggestiveness left tragically unfinished. His commitments were courageous. Much of his writing reflected upon the joys and challenges of Christian life through the prism of the simple question, “What does Jesus Christ mean for today?” Since his martyrdom, Bonhoeffer has only grown in stature, being claimed as inspiration by liberals and evangelicals, socialists and capitalists, theists and atheists. In 1951 Eberhard Bethge, Bonhoeffer’s student and closest friend, published his letters from prison under the title Widerstand und Ergebung ( Resistance and Submission ); it was translated into English as Letters and Papers from Prison , becoming a sensation and creating a popular hunger for all things Bonhoeffer. His little book, Life Together , a reflection on his experience with the underground (and ultimately banned) Confessing Church seminary at Finkenwalde, has become a modern devotional classic. But it is probably his book Discipleship, first published in an abridged English translation as The Cost of Discipleship in 1948, that is his most enduring contribution. Discipleship is a meditation on Jesus’ famous “Sermon on the Mount” (Matthew 5 – 7), reflecting on the nature of Jesus’ call, the response in obedience to follow, and the consequences of such a commitment. The opening pages of the book contrast “cheap grace” with “costly grace.” Cheap grace is that which leaves the recipient unchanged. It is grace without repentance or remorse. It is grace that leaves the recipient in thrall to the world. It is going through the motions. “Cheap grace is the mortal enemy of our church . . . [It is] preaching forgiveness without repentance; it is baptism without the discipline of community; it is the Lord’s Supper without confession of sin; it is absolution without personal confession. Cheap grace is grace without discipleship, grace without the cross, grace without the living, incarnate Jesus Christ” (DBWE 4: 43, 44). Costly grace, on the other hand, is authentic grace. It is grace that takes hold of a person and at the same time sets one free. It is grace as a yoke which binds one to he who calls and also to others who hear the call. “Costly grace is the hidden treasure in the field, for the sake of which people go and sell with joy everything they have. It is the costly pearl, for whose price the merchant sells all that he has.… It is the call of Jesus Christ which causes a disciple to leave his nets and follow him.… It is costly, because it calls to discipleship; it is grace, because it calls us to follow Jesus Christ. It is costly, because it costs people their lives; it is grace, because it thereby makes them live.… Above all, grace is costly, because it was costly to God, because it costs God the life of God’s Son and because nothing can be cheap to us which is costly to God” (DBWE 4: 44, 45). Costly grace leads one through the cross to resurrection. Grace is free but not cheap. It is a gift unbidden and undeserved. Grace is costly because it demands surrender, sacrifice, and obedience. Jesus said, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it. For what will it profit them if they gain the whole world but forfeit their life? Or what will they give in return for their life?” (Matthew 16:24-26) Bonhoeffer put it even more starkly: “When Jesus calls a person, he bids that one come and die.” A priest friend of mine was fond of reminding us at every turn that it’s easy to be a fan of Jesus; it’s hard to be a disciple. Real grace, authentic grace, costly grace is demanding; it requires commitment. Counterfeit grace leaves us feeling good without being good. Costly grace lifts us up into authentic humanity; cheap grace leaves us sedated but not healed. Fritz
The story we tell and treasure among ourselves at this time of year is a story of migrants. It is the story of peasants driven by the demands of an Empire utterly indifferent to their particular circumstances or well-being. It is a story that, despite our best efforts (spoiler alert: there is no cozy stable, no friendly animals, and no little drummer boy), cannot be romanticized into sweetness, but is a tale of hardship and risk. It is actually two stories with two different but related villains. Luke tells of Emperor Augustus, who despite his remoteness, can by mere decree compel a young woman to make an arduous 100 mile trek over rough and dangerous terrain while carrying a near full-term pregnancy. Matthew relates a different tale, of King Herod, a petty dictator tolerated by his Roman over-lords. Herod’s legendary paranoia and tyrannical rule result in the flight of the holy family, seeking asylum in Egypt of all places. Displacement is what happens to poor and powerless people in the Bible on a regular basis. Jacob and his tribe end up in Egypt trying to escape drought. Generations later their fate is slavery. Elimilech and Naomi likewise seek to escape famine, migrating to Moab and making a life there that will include a Moabite named Ruth. The Assyrians destroy Samaria and the Northern Kingdom, banish the inhabitants, and transplant settlers loyal to the empire. And of course, Babylon will follow and defeat Assyria, and ultimately destroy Jerusalem, the Temple, and every social institution, imposing on Judah the great catastrophe of Exile . Through all the heartbreaking experiences of displacement, believers – Jews and Christians – are strictly enjoined to have special regard for the gerim (a Hebrew word variously translated: sojourner, stranger, alien, immigrant), that is for those outsiders who happen by choice or circumstance to be among us. The ger is not to be despised or exploited, but rather included in the community and offered hospitality. The alien, along with he widow and orphan, are entitled to the gleanings from the field. They shall not be deprived of justice. Indeed, they shall be loved because (1) God loves them, and (2) because God loved us when we were slaves (slavery being the opposite pole from hospitable treatment). Moses puts it succinctly (Deut. 10:17 -19): For the LORD your God is God of gods and Lord of lords, the great God, mighty and awesome, who is not partial and takes no bribe, who executes justice for the orphan and the widow, and who loves the strangers, providing them food and clothing. You shall also love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt. This text, it seems to me, is only a short step from Jesus’ own radical injunction to love our enemies. Admittedly, a few proof-texts cannot solve our current immigrant / border control issues. However, we can derive an orientation that clarifies what is permissible and is useful. For instance, any policy that neglects compassion and relies on and promotes fear, suspicion, and hate toward migrants violates the spirit of our most deeply held religious beliefs. Likewise, any practice that utilizes children as a deterrent and justifies making children into orphans is not worthy of support or consideration. As the storm clouds gather at our southern border and the situation careens toward lethal force – an impending massacre looming that seems desired by some - it would be well to remember that the lord of the universe was born far from home in an alley, a migrant whose first bed was an animal’s feeding trough, because there was no room for them in the inn. Fritz
The Renaissance emerged from the High Middle Ages beginning in the 14th Century. Centered initially in Florence, its influence rippled to every corner of Europe and permeated every human pursuit: art, music, architecture, literature, economics, politics, war, science, philosophy, religion. Some of the greatest figures in Western Civilization were associated with the Renaissance: Dante, Petrarch, Leonardo, Michelangelo, Machiavelli, Dürer, Galileo, Copernicus, and many, many more. Less a movement than an ethos, the diverse Renaissance personalities shared a common inspiration: the recovery of Greek and Latin classics. The motto of the Renaissance became ad fontes : “to the sources!” The way forward – they insisted - the flowering of European culture, the “new birth” was possible only through a recovery of classical wisdom. Luther was not a Renaissance scholar; rather he was trained in the prevailing scholastic tradition of the Church. However, ad fontes had a particular resonance for him: Instead of Greek and Roman classicism, “to the sources” meant back to Scripture and to Augustine. Calvin, as a lawyer, was more thoroughly immersed in Renaissance humanism than the German monk. (His first book, for example, was a commentary on the great Latin writer Seneca’s De Clementia). But following Luther he came to see “the sources” as the Bible and the works of Augustine. For both Luther and Calvin the Church had gone off its rails and any hope of restoration required reaching back for a usable past. All of the reformers, in spite of their many and passionate differences, had this in common, that the way forward had its origin in the first principles articulated in a classic age. The Reformers were committed to a fresh start, a foundation laid bare and ready for new structures to be built, bedrock freed from centuries of accretion. They were, in a word, radicals (from the Latin radix meaning “root”) – that is, those determined to return to the root of the matter and only then to proceed from there. They thought that returning ad fontes – to the Bible preeminently, and to a few early saints, especially the Bishop of Hippo – would free them for the constructive task of faithful living. If they, in turn, stumbled along the way, we should not forget that at their best they also pointed to a Savior more radical than we usually admit. To bear in self-identification the name “Christian” is to be rooted in the one who is the way, the truth, and the life, to draw our sustenance from him, to find in him a clarity and purpose obscured and distorted in the world. To follow him is to find ourselves witnesses to extravagant forgiveness of the blatantly unworthy, promiscuous association with obvious undesirables, and fierce rejection of the conventionally pious. To be in his presence is to hear the call to love God, to renounce self, to turn the other cheek, to love our enemies. To receive his grace is to know ourselves to be, in fact, lost sheep and prodigal sons. The temptation of every Christian is to domesticate Jesus, to reduce him to someone palatable and manageable and convenient. But Jesus will not be so tamed. He would sooner go to a cross. Jesus is perhaps “too radical for Georgia,” but to those who are being called, those who have ears to hear, he is our root, our source. By returning to him we find our true identity and by proceeding from him we find our vocation in the world. While all the world can see is a radical as extremist who disrupts the status quo, we are rooted in the radical who as an act of mercy and of love promises not to leave the world as it is, but to make all things new. Fritz
It was not too long ago that the so-called “new atheists” – people like Sam Harris, Richard Dawkins, Daniel Dennett, and Christopher Hitchens - were prominent on the talking heads circuit, their anti-religion message resonating in an era of religiously inspired terrorism and Evangelical bluster. Debates with the self-appointed protectors of religion (meaning Christianity) and a spate of best-sellers put them in the spotlight for a brief time. Looking back, it appears that they came and went like the flavor of the week. What remains is the status quo ante: a surfeit of gods, each one clamoring for our attention and loyalty. In short, the challenge that persists in and around the church is not the new flash-in-the-pan atheism, but rather the age-old glut of gods. After all, the First Commandment is not “You shall believe in me,” but rather, “you shall renounce all other gods.” The task of faithful people is not artfully to arrange a hierarchy of greater and lesser loyalties, but rather to love God with all our heart and soul and strength, a love so complete there is no room for any other. Whether in the Israel of Deuteronomy, or the Wittenberg of Luther, or the Geneva of Calvin, or even the Cobb County of 21st century America the problem is the same: how do we remain faithful to the one, true God and reject the seductions of the many other deities who would enroll us in their idolatries and so subvert our faith. We may inscribe the slogan “in God we trust” on our money and on our license plates, but the counter-question is, ”Which god?” Luther, in his Large Catechism, puts the matter succinctly: “God is that in which we are to look for all good and in which we are to find refuge in all need. Therefore, to have a god is nothing else than to trust and believe in that one with your whole heart. As I have often said, it is the trust and faith of the heart alone that make both God and an idol. If your faith and trust are right, then your God is the true one. Conversely, where your trust is false and wrong, there you do not have the true God. For these two belong together, faith and God. Anything on which your heart relies and depends, I say, that is really your God.” Calvin agrees, and goes further: “. . . [human] nature, so to speak, is a perpetual factory of idols.” In spite of the grace that flows into our lives, we are constantly tempted to invest our love and commitment in things and ideas and practices that cannot sustain their devotion. The outcome of our situation - being drawn to God and being, at the same time, prone to idolatry - is that we increasingly have difficulty distinguishing between the one, true God and the gods of our own creation. Our trust is more likely in the world’s largest economy than in the God who demands we care for the poor. Our reliance is in the might of world’s most richly funded and equipped military rather than in the God who calls us not to victory but to sacrifice, and promises to be with us. Perhaps most insidiously, we are most enthusiastic toward all who promise to satisfy our desires and our hearts cling to any who will assure us of our own essential goodness (and therefore our deservedness). In fear or uncertainty or in fevered narcissism we seek out gods who will serve us, satisfy us, comfort us. Like the ancient Israelites and their golden calf, we are fully capable of creating our own gods, all decked out in red, white, and blue: gods who will gladly fawn over us, justify any behavior, assure us of our inherent superiority, if we will only give up our loyalty. The antidote to our idolatry is remembrance. Moses, giving his last advice to the Israelites before they cross over the Jordan, repeatedly calls them to remember who God is by remembering what God has done. By refusing to forget, by ritualizing remembrance (see Deuteronomy 6:4-9), the people may resist the constant inclination to idolatry, and prosper in the presence of God. For us, remembrance focuses on the ritual of story and the table: “Do this in remembrance of me,” Jesus says, while at the same table we affirm a summary of the story: “Christ has died; Christ is risen; Christ will come again.” To know the one, true God, the God of Abraham and Sarah, the God of Moses, the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, we must remember the story of Jesus. This is the essence of Christianity, that we are formed by the story of the one we call Lord and that we tell the story in word and deed in the world. It is this simple repetitive act of rehearsal, in worship and devotion and prayer, in our going out and our coming in, that will guard us and free us from the clutches of the false gods that roam the land. Do you know the story? Can you tell it to your grandchildren? Fritz
Once upon a time the word “politics” signified “the art or science of government” (Merriam-Webster). Now it is commonly a term of derision. The use of “politics” today implies manipulation, dishonesty, and other scurrilous behaviors. “Playing politics” means maneuvering for personal advantage. An unscrupulous politician is a redundancy. Politics is polarizing, divisive, distasteful – best not talked about in polite company. Our national founders feared the turn toward political party as the sectarian end to true democracy (although it wasn’t long before there were Federalists and Jeffersonians heaping calumny on each other). Religion is, likewise, a potentially inflammatory term, best kept to oneself. This is the Enlightenment solution to generations of bloody and destructive religious conflict: privatize religion, making it a matter of personal choice and preference, untouchable from the outside, and hence free. The problem is that the more we marginalize these two areas of passion – religion and politics – the more dangerous they become, festering in the darkness when they might better serve us in the light. Each comes to occupy a tyrannical and authoritarian place, unchallenged and unchallengeable, carefully enshrined in an echo chamber of one’s particular ideological bent. Indeed, we often fail to see how sickly and insubstantial our own convictions are until they are exposed to the full light of day. I know that one widely held conviction is that we should keep politics out of the church. My simple proposal runs in just the opposite direction: I believe that our church should be a place where free and passionate political discussion occurs as a matter of course. The payoff for such an unconventional commitment would be two-fold: a benefit to our fellowship in that we could finally express what we have heretofore kept carefully suppressed; and a benefit to each other and the society we keep as we practice and model civil and engaged exchange. We might even rehabilitate “politics” itself. Two things will be necessary for such a change to take place. First, we will need to trust each other – trust that the goal is not defeat of an opponent, but rather mutual, if slow, progress toward the truth. Second, we will need to improve our political and theological literacy. Repeating ideological talking points designed to reinforce the convictions of true believers will be totally inadequate for engaging those who have a different starting point and a different world view. In short, we will need to learn how to make arguments that might convince rather than bludgeon; we will have to learn again how to offer personal testimony rather than calling down revealed truth. In the church, the structure of such arguments might be: “Because I believe this [theological claim], I affirm/support that [policy or program].” I have been told that “everyone knows where I stand [politically].” I doubt it. While I have not hidden my disdain for the present administration, no one has inquired about my particular objections or why I hold them; nor has anyone challenged my views, or tried to open my mind to some more adequate truth. It may be polite to pass off everything as “You believe what you believe, and I’ll believe what I believe . . .” but it surely is not a recipe for Christian fellowship. We owe each other more than an empty tolerance. Let’s talk!! Fritz
There are many things to celebrate and many ways to do it on July 4th. For some it is a welcomed mid-summer break; for others a family party; for still others a community festival. At its base, however, we would do well to remember that we are celebrating not our actual independence from British rule, but rather our declaration to that effect. The founders did not designate the capitulation of Cornwallis at Yorktown (September 3) or the ratification of the Treaty of Paris (January 14) – the military and political ends of the Revolution – as Independence Day. Instead, they chose the day when colonial representatives announced their freedom from colonial rule as an idea and a fact. Colonists were independent of British rule, they insisted, on the basis of mere assertion. With “repeated injuries and usurpations,” the King had descended into a despotism and tyranny that not only justified but even necessitated dissolving the political bands binding colonists with motherland. Seven more years of conflict would be required to turn declaration into reality. Indeed, some historians argue that America would be finally free of British rule only after the successful conclusion of the War of 1812. We should not underestimate how dangerous this idea of independence is. John Calvin insisted to his dying day that there was no right inherent in faithful citizenry to overthrow a ruler, even a despotic one. When his fellow French Protestants – undergoing brutal persecution - sought his advice, Calvin could only offer two choices: martyrdom or flight into exile; deposing a lawfully established ruler was not an option. Calvin’s younger colleague, John Knox, himself an exile from the Marian persecutions in England, had a different idea. Knox argued that neglect of the gospel mandates or abuse of one’s position (which were for him two sides of the same coin) was justification for faithful resistance and even revolution. What Calvin thought unthinkable, Knox promoted as not only possible but necessary; it was the duty of the faithful to secure fidelity in leadership. Thus, Knox could harass the young Scottish Queen, the Catholic Mary Stuart, right out of Scotland. For Knox no political leader has legitimacy simply on the basis of birth or position, but only on his or her conformity to the gospel. Similarly, no subject is under obligation to an unfaithful leader; just the opposite, subjects have a duty to expose, punish, and even depose such leaders. Ordinary people may stand in judgment of their rulers. Their difference on this crucial point drove a wedge between Calvin and Knox that was never reconciled. The American Revolution was possible not in Calvin’s terms, but only as a Knox-inspired rebellion. It is no accident that many of the most outspoken proponents of independency were Scottish and Northern Irish immigrants who combined no great love for England with a pro-revolutionary religious fervor. Among the most vociferous was the famed Scottish preacher and president of the fledgling Presbyterian school in Princeton, John Witherspoon. The only clergy-person to sign the Declaration, Witherspoon was a tireless agitator for American separation (and a special target of British wrath), justifying his position and exhorting others from every pulpit to which he was invited. One of the ironies of revolution, whatever their initial justification, is that once the revolutionaries seize power, their objective inevitably shifts to securing their own right to rule. In different ways this has been true of the American, French, and Russian revolutions as well as the colonial rebellions of the 19th and 20th Centuries. Successful revolutionaries become custodians of power, admitting only to the need for occasional reform which will not threaten their entrenched position. In short, revolutions become domesticated; then they become the status quo; and then they descend into mundane corruption. Perhaps on this 4th we should remember the bold claims of self-governance articulated in the Declaration, but also another of Jefferson’s words (in a letter to James Madison): “I hold it that a little rebellion now and then is a good thing, and as necessary in the political world as storms in the physical.” Fritz
One of the great mysteries of human civilization is how a tiny middle eastern cult managed to make its own distinctive view of time into the world standard. Days are easy to understand; months correspond roughly to lunar cycles; and even years correspond to the stars and the seasons. But a seven day week reflects nothing in human experience. It is ideological, not experiential. The story of a six day creation and a seventh day to rest may be the basis of the idea or its justification, a chicken-and-egg kind of puzzle, but it doesn’t explain how such an idea has persisted and become universal across cultures and religious identities. Of course, it is the seventh day that particularly interests us. The seventh day is the special day; the others are ordinary. “Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a sabbath to the LORD . . .” For Jews, sabbath begins Friday at sundown and ends Saturday at sundown. Christians early on adopted the Roman practice of midnight-to-midnight days and shifted Sabbath from the end of the week to the Lord’s Day, the first day of the week. The practice of Sabbath remains varied, ambiguous, and largely negative. Clearly, “keeping,” “remembering,” or “obeying” the Sabbath has meant identifying what we can’t or shouldn’t do: work most obviously – although defining “work” has vexed the faithful down to the present day. Many Protestants added entertainments” as something to be avoided. Luther shifted the focus from rest to holiness: “ because we all do not have the time and leisure, we must set aside several hours a week for the young people, or at least a day for the whole community, when we can concentrate only on these matters and deal especially with the Ten Commandments, the Creed, and the Lord’s Prayer, and thus regulate our entire life and being in accordance with God’s word. Whenever this practice is in force, a holy day is truly kept ” [Luther’s Larger Catechism ]. In the Westminster Shorter Catechism, the dual nature of rest and devotion is succinctly stated: “ The Sabbath is to be sanctified by a holy resting all that day, even from such worldly employments and recreations as are lawful on other days; and spending the whole time in the public and private exercises of God’s worship, except so much as is to be taken up in the works of necessity and mercy .” [A. 60]. Jesus was regularly in conflict with the devout of his day over what was permissible and what forbidden on the Sabbath. Mark says that Jesus was grieved at his opponents’ “hardness of heart,” and condemned them for having distorted priorities: “The Sabbath was made for people, and not people for the Sabbath.” Jesus is in good company. Amos the prophet upbraids his auditors for hiding behind Sabbath regulations while “buying the poor for silver and the needy for a pair of sandals.” Likewise, Isaiah identifies genuine sabbath observance as the touchstone of faithfulness: I f you refrain from trampling the sabbath, from pursuing your own interests on my holy day; if you call the sabbath a delight and the holy day of the LORD honorable; if you honor it, not going your own ways, serving your own interests, or pursuing your own affairs; then you shall take delight in the LORD, and I will make you ride upon the heights of the earth; I will feed you with the heritage of your ancestor Jacob, for the mouth of the LORD has spoken. [58:13-14]. What is surprising is how little reflection we have received from our theological forebearers on the notion that we worship a God who rests and invites rest. Surely in a world like ours where the drive is always in the direction of more production, more acquisition, and more consumption, this idea of a God who rests is destabilizing and subversive. Yet many Christians have so abandoned even the vestige of Sabbath that only Chic-Fil-A is recognizably Sabbatarian in our culture. Indeed, we have become the people of Nine Commandments (or less). Rest is inviting, but we really don’t know how to do it without becoming legalistic. Worship is worthwhile, but for an hour, not for a day. Walter Brueggemann’s little book, Sabbath As Resistance , will help us reflect on the meaning and practice of Sabbath. There will be other resources as well, including each other. Join us for a fellowship meal Wednesdays at 6:00 (soup du jour provided; bring a side or dessert to share), and discussion to follow at 6:45. Fritz
There's nothing you can do that can't be done. Nothing you can sing that can't be sung. Nothing you can say, but you can learn How to play the game It's easy. All you need is love . . . By 1967, The Beatles had become worldly wise, perhaps even a little bit cynical. They were certainly not any longer the artists of I Want to Hold Your Hand and Please Please Me . In the summer of 1967, between Sgt. Pepper’s and the so-called White Album , they released a non-album single, All You Need Is Love . Far from a paean to the power of love (as some commentators would have it, ignoring every musical and lyrical cue), All You Need is ruthless satire, mocking the idea of self-sufficient love. From the pretentious sample of La Marseillaise that opens the song, to the sneering brass on each chorus, to Paul’s exhortation near the end for everybody to join in, to the reference to Yesterday and She Loves You , to the lyrics of limitation, the song is testimony to what love cannot do. The cloying sentimentality of popular notions of love will no longer do. It’s not that easy. By way of contrast, one might consider the Biblical view of love. There we find love of God as a commandment and love of neighbor as its corollary. Throughout the Biblical traditions love is not a feeling or an idea, but rather a commitment and an action. Love is what you do – and it’s far from easy. Love in this sense is not caught like a virus; nor does one fall into it. Rather, love is exemplified by God and instilled by the Holy Spirit. Love cannot be earned or deserved; it can only be gratefully received and freely given. God is the source of love, and in divine loving sets us free as only the beloved can be free to be loving as well. First John insists that because God is love, both the beginning and end (the alpha and omega) of love is God. Thus love is not primarily a philosophical idea, or a sociological construct, or a psychological phenomenon, but rather a theological revelation. God is known – and desires to be known - in divine acts of love which are expressed in self-sacrifice, in choosing to side with the needy against the self-sufficient, and in speaking the truth. We see these attributes embodied in Jesus who is the epitome of self-sacrifice, whose ministry focuses on the sick, the demon-possessed, the poor, and the marginalized, and who himself is the way, the truth, and the life. Torah repeatedly affirms that as an expression of God’s love there is special divine concern for widows, orphans, and sojourners (this last sometimes translated “aliens” or “strangers”) – that is, those who have no standing in society must receive determined care because they are the ones with whom God has chosen to stand in their need and vulnerability. God does so not because they are particularly lovable or deserving but because God’s chief attribute is “ hesed ”, a complex Hebrew word which the King James translators rendered “Steadfast love” but which also carries the idea of covenant loyalty. God, it is often said, abounds in steadfast love, but that love is persistent and enduring even when met with the frequent hurtful cases of unfaithfulness. The apostle Paul’s brief meditation on love which is now one of the most familiar texts of the Bible – misapplied regularly in weddings – also emphasizes the sacrificial character of love, its perseverance, the need love yearns to address, and its ties to the truth. While nothing could be further from the apostle’s mind than a couple entering wedded bliss, his view of love is entirely in keeping with the Hebrew/Old Testament view of love which was his heritage. Then he goes further: God’s love comes to us not when we have turned the corner or come to our senses, but while we were weak, even ungodly, sinners at enmity with God. The formula holds: God loves the poor, the stricken, the marginal, the broken, the struggling, the foolish, even the enemy – and as God’s people in the world so should we. Love one another; Love your neighbor; Love your enemy. It isn’t easy. It’s certainly not romantic. (Everybody sing!) It is, however, work of the most vital kind. Indeed, it is the way of the pilgrim in this world, going out from God filled and overflowing with blessing only to end up where God is. We have been made, Augustine writes, for God, and our hearts are restless to they find their rest in him. Fritz
In Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania circa 1970, Jesus was in the air. Jesus freaks – shaggy boys and earth-mother girls – were sidewalk evangelists, passing out tracts and confronting any who would listen with the need and possibility of salvation. Church youth groups and Young Life chapters were burgeoning with teenage boomers. The musical Godspell had originated as a master’s thesis at Carnegie Mellon University; and Jesus Christ Superstar was seen for the first time on stage by an audience of 13,000 at the Civic Arena. I began my sophomore year that September at Bethel Park High. It was a formative time for any teenager, an impressionable time – and I was impressed by Jesus Christ Superstar. I was not alone. Following the success of the Who’s Tommy , Decca Records was bold enough to release a double disc concept album by unknowns about the last days of Jesus. Even Decca did not expect what happened: the album soared up the Billboard charts, finishing 1971 as the number one album of the year, ahead of such enduring classics as All Things Must Pass, Tapestry , Sticky Fingers , and Pearl. There followed stage productions on Broadway and the West End, and then around the world; and there was a major Hollywood movie filmed on location in Israel. Of course, there was also backlash: charges of sacrilege, outraged cries of blasphemy, and album burnings. But no protests could eclipse the fact that millions of children and young adults learned Tim Rice’s lyrics by heart, and many came to understand the gospels through the frame of Jesus Christ Superstar . I was reminded of my debt to Lloyd Weber and Rice watching the excellent NBC production this Easter Sunday. After all these years of study and devotion, I was still rapt from the opening guitar licks to the closing credits. My favor was more than mere nostalgia or sentimentality. Tim Rice, the lyricist, captured the gospel in a way enduringly compelling to me these many years on. The key decision was not to base the story on a particular canonical gospel (like Godspell did with Matthew) but rather to approach the drama from Judas’ perspective. Judas thus is elevated from a few lines in the canon to the sympathetic, central character, caught between his admiration for Jesus and his devotion to the movement: “Jesus! / You've started to believe / The things they say of you / You really do believe / This talk of God is true / And all the good you've done / Will soon be swept away / You've begun to matter more / Than the things you say.” Ultimately, this Judas will betray Jesus not out of greed but out of loyalty to the cause he thinks Jesus now endangers. Tragically, he discovers that the man and the message cannot be so easily disentangled; nor can his devotion to one be separated from the other. In the end Judas cries out bitterly to God, half in confession and half in accusation: “My mind is darkness now / My god I am sick / I've been used / And you knew / All the time / God I'll never ever know / Why you chose me for your crime / For your foul bloody crime / You have murdered me! / You have murdered me!” (The chorus sings in the background, “So long, Judas / Poor old Judas.”) Jesus, in this telling, has paid the price for popularity. Everyone wants some piece of him: the sick want to be healed; the disciples want their place in the sun; the crowds want a spectacle; the zealots want his endorsement of their revolution; the priests want a scapegoat. Seen from the perspective of Gethsemane, Jesus struggles with doubt: “I only want to say / If there is a way / Take this cup away from me / For I don't want to taste its poison / Feel it burn me, / I have changed I'm not as sure / As when we started / Then I was inspired / Now I'm sad and tired / Listen surely I've exceeded / Expectations / Tried for three years / Seems like thirty / Could you ask as much / From any other man?” Nevertheless, doubt finally gives way to petition and petition to (re)commitment: “Show me there's a reason / For your wanting me to die / You're far too keen on where and how / But not so hot on why / Alright I'll die! / Just watch me die!” JCS ends with crucifixion and an implied burial; there is no Easter. Instead, there is the perennial question of followers: how does one love the leader? Mary Magdalene acknowledges her struggle early: “I don't know how to love him / What to do, how to move him / I've been changed, yes really changed / In these past few days / When I've seen myself / I seem like someone else.” Fraught with sexual allusion, the song is ironically about a passion beyond sexuality; if it were not, Mary implies, she would not be in the slightest confused. However, it is when part of the song finds its way into Judas’ dying, guilt-ridden anguish that we can see it more thematically: “I don't know how to love him / I don't know why he moves me / He's a man / He's just a man / He's not a king / He's just the same / As anyone I know / He scares me so! / When he's cold and dead / Will he let me be? / Does he love me too? / Does he care for me?” Jesus may be a superstar in this drama, but he remains an enduring enigma whose death has often transcended and sometimes even obscured his message. One reason that Jesus Christ Superstar endures – and 10 million viewers tuned in to see – is that even though we know the ending, the aftermath, now stretching to two millennia, remains cloaked in mystery. The whys of God’s particular choices remain inscrutable. Like Mark’s gospel, in which the men forsake him and flee, and the women say nothing to anyone for they were afraid, still the word has gotten out. He is risen. We are the living proof of this miracle. Fritz