Counterfeit Kingdom

Greetings! Below is the text of my most recent sermon, which I preached this morning at First Presbyterian Church in Harlan. My text was Matthew 22:1-14, along with Philippians 4:1-9 and Psalm 22:22-31. Enjoy and ponder :)

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I’m just going to say it: Of all the stories Jesus told, this is probably the strangest and most unsettling on the surface. I think we would all agree that it doesn’t appeal to our sense of justice, to say the least.

Let’s review: A king throws a banquet and invites the kingdom’s elite, but no one is interested in attending. After the people mistreat and kill some of the king’s messengers, the king retaliates, sending an army to wipe out the people. He then sends more messengers to invite whoever they can find to the banquet.

Then, just as we expect the story to end, Jesus throws a curveball. The king comes into the banquet and is furious because one of the guests is not appropriately dressed. The king has the man thrown out of the banquet.

Here is where the story loses me. The king had his people invite a man who did not fit in, then got angry because the man didn’t fit in. If this king is supposed to represent God, I think we can all understand why it might leave a bad taste in someone’s mouth.

But that is exactly the issue: I don’t believe this king is supposed to represent God.

Many of Jesus’ parables begin with the phrase, “The Kingdom of God is like…” or, “The Kingdom of heaven is like. …” Jesus would then proceed to tell a story that communicated some truth about the way God intends for the world to be. When we read it in our English translations, this one seems to be part of that same tradition; but the original Greek actually contains two distinctions which provide a strong hint that Jesus is really saying something very different in this parable.

First, the tense is different. Rather than saying “the kingdom is like,” the original Greek says something closer to “the kingdom has been made like.” Secondly, the word rendered “king” specifies that we are talking about a human king.

Putting these two distinctions together, I propose that this king is not meant to represent God, and this king’s behavior does not represent the way the kingdom of God operates. What Jesus is actually saying is, “The idea of the kingdom of God has been hijacked and made into something very human.”

The king Jesus describes is rash, answering violence with an equal or greater measure of violence. Not only that, he’s also impossible to please. He is a narcissist who responds to perceived slights, not with grace and dignity, but with judgment and violence. Even a man who was only there at the king’s urging was ultimately rejected for not meeting a standard that had not been explained to him. I can’t emphasize this strongly enough; the king instructs his messengers to invite both “good” and “bad” people, and then reacts angrily to the presence of a man he perceives as bad.

Someone once said, “God created man in his own image, and man returned the favor.” This seems to echo the sentiment Jesus is sharing in this parable.

Jesus is saying, in essence, “You have taken God’s dream for the world and turned it into something that reflects your own preferences. You have turned God into a mean-spirited, condemning king, self-absorbed and ready to punish anyone who steps out of line.”

Doesn’t that God sound a little too familiar? Haven’t we all heard of this vicious God of condemnation too many times, from too many of those who claim to speak for God?

Compare the king in Jesus’ parable to the words of David in Psalm 22, our responsive reading a few moments ago. In The Message paraphrase, David writes:

“Down-and-outers sit at God’s table and eat their fill. Everyone on the hunt for God is here, praising him. ‘Live it up from head to toe. Don’t ever quit!’ From the four corners of the earth people are coming to their senses, are running back to God. Long-lost families are falling on their faces before him. God has taken charge; from now on he has the last word. All the power-mongers are before him – worshiping! All the poor and powerless, too – worshiping! Along with those who never got it together – worshiping!”

This sounds quite different from people being removed from the banquet for not meeting the king’s standard, doesn’t it?

The truth is, the kingdom of God is far more expansive than we’re capable of imagining. The truth is, whoever we think does not belong is indeed welcomed with open arms, because God is not like the king in Jesus’ parable.

Probably 12 or 13 years ago, someone shared with me an excerpt from Max Lucado’s book “In the Grip of Grace.” I have never forgotten this passage, because I can strongly relate to Lucado’s confession; and I’ll bet you can, too. This is what he wrote:

You know what disturbs me most about Jeffrey Dahmer? What disturbs me most are not his acts, though they are disgusting. Dahmer was convicted of seventeen murders. Eleven corpses were found in his apartment. He cut off arms. He ate body parts. My thesaurus has 204 synonyms for vile, but each falls short of describing a man who kept skulls in his refrigerator and hoarded a human heart. He redefined the boundary for brutality. The Milwaukee monster dangled from the lowest rung of human conduct and then dropped. But that’s not what troubles me most. Can I tell you what troubles me most about Jeffrey Dahmer? Not his trial, as disturbing as it was, with all those pictures of him sitting serenely in court, face frozen, motionless. No sign of remorse, no hint of regret. Remember his steely eyes and impassive face? But I don’t speak of him because of his trial. There is another reason. Can I tell you what really troubles me about Jeffrey Dahmer? Not his punishment, though life without parole is hardly an exchange for his actions. How many years would satisfy justice? A lifetime in jail for every life he took? But that’s another matter, and that’s not what troubles me most about Jeffrey Dahmer. May I tell you what does? His conversion.

Months before an inmate murdered him, Jeffrey Dahmer became a Christian. Said he repented. Was sorry for what he did. Profoundly sorry. Said he put his faith in Christ. Was baptized. Started life over. Began reading Christian books and attending chapel. Sins washed. Soul cleansed. Past forgiven. That troubles me. It shouldn’t, but it does. Grace for a cannibal? Maybe you have the same reservations. If not about Dahmer, perhaps about someone else. Ever wrestled with the deathbed conversion of a rapist or the eleventh-hour conversion of a child molester? We’ve sentenced them, maybe not in court, but in our hearts. We’ve put them behind bars and locked the door. They are forever imprisoned by our disgust. And then, the impossible happens. They repent.

I’m convinced that what we often consider righteous indignation is really nothing more than puny self-righteousness. We are much more like the Pharisees than we’d like to admit. We take a sort of pleasure in the limits we set on the kingdom of God. We use rules and regulations as a means of measuring our goodness. When we can identify what’s wrong with someone else’s behavior, we feel just a little bit better about ourselves. This is why, as Max Lucado said, we are bothered by the idea that God accepts those we consider to be worse than us.

One of my heroes is a musician and prophet from New Jersey named Bruce Springsteen. I can’t tell you how exciting it is for me to have the opportunity to work The Boss into a sermon! I think a lot of Bruce’s songs belong in sermons, but one of my favorites is kind of an obscure one; it was only recorded on a live album at Madison Square Garden in 1999, after Bruce reassembled the E Street Band. Some critics consider it to be one of the best songs of the second half of Bruce’s career. It’s called “Land of Hope and Dreams.” I think Bruce intended to write a hopeful song about the possibility of a better world, and in the process, perhaps unintentionally, he wrote what I think is one of the most stirring expressions of the gospel of the kingdom of God that I can imagine.

The song echoes the themes of Psalm 22, but instead of a table, it uses a train metaphor. Bruce sings about a train that “carries saints and sinners, carries losers and winners, carries whores and gamblers, carries lost souls; carries the broken-hearted, carries thieves and sweet souls departed, carries fools, carries kings – all aboard!”

One old hymn says, “The ground is level at the foot of the cross.” Another says, “The strong, the tempted and the weak are one in Jesus now.” Whatever words we use, this message is cause for celebration: The kingdom of God is open to everyone. All are welcome. And the degree to which this bothers us is the degree to which the heart of a Pharisee resides in us.

As unsettling as this parable is on the surface, I believe it’s one of the most brilliant stories Jesus ever told. I think it’s brilliant because Jesus levels two charges against the Pharisees; they play two roles in the story. First, as we’ve already discussed, they’re the king; they have stolen the identity of God and created a God of their own, one who is impossible to please and takes pleasure in punishing us.

But, like many good stories, this one works on multiple levels. Jesus also suggests that the Pharisees are the people who were invited to the banquet. With artful subtlety, he reminds them that they have been given an invitation, but they have been so preoccupied with their own agenda that they have ignored the call. It’s the same invitation that was given all the way back to Abraham – that God’s chosen people would be blessed in order to be a blessing to the entire world. It was an invitation to be partners in bringing God’s dream to fruition. Later, Paul echoed this invitation as he urged the Philippian church to “make it as clear as you can to all you meet that you’re on their side, working with them and not against them.” Instead, the Pharisees made it their life’s work to create in-groups and out-groups.

It’s easy to see why Jesus got frustrated with the Pharisees. He saw in them such passion, such single-minded commitment and devotion. If only they could see their potential, he must have thought. If only they could understand the invitation they’ve been given. If only they could channel that passion into something meaningful – God could change the world through them.

Perhaps Jesus thinks the same thing when he sees us and the lines we draw. If only we understood the party we were invited to.

One of Flannery O’Connor’s best-known short stories is “Revelation.” The story tells of Mrs. Turpin, an elderly lady who thinks herself better than most of the people she sees around her – especially those of other races. One night, Mrs. Turpin has a vision in which people are ascending into heaven. O’Connor writes:

“There were whole companies of white-trash, clean for the first time in their lives, and bands of blacks in white robes, and battalions of freaks and lunatics shouting and clapping and leaping like frogs. And bringing up the end of the procession was a tribe of people whom she recognized at once as those who, like herself and Claud, had always had a little of everything and the God-given wit to use it right. She leaned forward to observe them closer. They were marching behind the others with great dignity, accountable as they had always been for good order and common sense and respectable behavior. They alone were on key. Yet she could see by their shocked and altered faces that even their virtues were being burned away. … In a moment the vision faded but she remained where she was, immobile.

“At length she got down and turned off the faucet and made her slow way on the darkening path to the house. In the woods around her the invisible cricket choruses had struck up, but what she heard were the voices of the souls climbing upward into the starry field and shouting hallelujah.”

May we never follow a counterfeit king or participate in a counterfeit kingdom of our own creation. May we be ever mindful of our invitation to the party, and diligent in our efforts to be part of God’s work of redeeming our world. And may we rejoice to know that this invitation is offered to all.

The Face of the Enemy

I had the privilege of speaking at First Presbyterian Church in Harlan this morning. The following is my somewhat-9/11-themed sermon, "The Face of the Enemy." Tip o' the cap to Shane Hipps of Mars Hill Bible Church, Brian McLaren, and Sojourners magazine for some stuff I "borrowed" :)

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At first glance, the story of Jonah might seem like an odd choice for the day we commemorate the attacks of September 11. But if we look a little closer, I think we’ll see the story connects deeply to the events we remember today.

Let’s begin with a couple of notes about the book of Jonah: It’s part of a group of books collectively known as the Minor Prophets (which seems insulting to me), but it differs from the other books of prophecy in the Hebrew scriptures in a couple of distinct ways.

First, it isn’t tied to any particular time period. The other prophetic books link their main character to the reign of a certain king – so they’ll open with something like, “The word of the Lord came to So-and-So during the reign of So-and-So, king of Israel.” The book of Jonah simply begins with God speaking to Jonah. This leads many scholars to the conclusion that the story of Jonah is a legend, meaning it didn’t literally, factually happen in reality. Even so, it can be very instructive for us all these years later.

Secondly, it contains virtually no oracle. All of the other prophetic books contain chapter after chapter of the prophets speaking the words of God, with a little narrative sprinkled in from time to time. Jonah is all narrative, with the prophet speaking only one sentence on God’s behalf.

I’d like to share a couple of thoughts from the passages we read at the beginning and end of the book. The first comes from the first part of our text. It’s helpful if we have some understanding of where God tells Jonah to go, and where Jonah decides to go instead.

Nineveh was the seat of power of the Assyrian Empire, which was the first of a succession of empires to dominate Israel following the reign of David and Solomon. The Assyrians conquered the northern kingdom in the eighth century BCE. Needless to say, the Jews and the Assyrians were bitter enemies.

The hatred was so strong, in fact, that Jonah chose to disobey God’s command and instead boarded a ship bound for Tarshish. Located on the coast of what is now Spain, Tarshish was known as a tourist hot spot, a vacation destination for the wealthy. Nineveh, on the other hand, was exactly what you’d expect the capital of an empire to be. First, it was known as a brutal, violent city. Like the Roman Empire a few centuries later, the Assyrians were known for dealing very harshly with anyone who interfered with the interests of the empire. History tells of one Assyrian king who boasted of quashing a rebellion by peeling the skin off his opponents and cutting off the fingers and noses of survivors. Nineveh had a reputation as a city of immense depravity; and, like most powerful cities, it was also known as a place of both tremendous wealth and tremendous poverty, with a large gap between the rich and the poor.

It might seem interesting to us in the 21^st century that Jonah chose to flee to Tarshish in order to get away from God. There’s an entire theology now that would have us believe that we would be much more likely to find God in a place like Tarshish than in an uncivilized place like Nineveh. We don’t think of God as residing in places like the red light districts of Amsterdam, the streets of Compton, the alleys of Skid Row or the Horn of Africa. It’s easy for us to rationalize that Tarshish is where we need to go to find God, when in fact God has called us to our own Nineveh.

Tony Campolo is a writer and speaker I greatly admire. It seems that Tony, who lives in Philadelphia, was traveling on the West Coast a few years ago, and the time difference messed up his sleep schedule. He found himself sitting in a donut shop near his hotel at 3 a.m., when a group of prostitutes came in and sat down at the booth behind him. They had just finished their night and stopped in to grab a bite to eat before going home.

Tony couldn’t help but overhear the women’s conversation. One of them, a woman named Agnes, told the others that the next day was her 39^th birthday. When one of them sarcastically offered to throw her a party, Agnes said she had never had a birthday party and didn’t expect to have one now.

When the women left, Tony asked the shop owner if the women came in every night. The man said yes, and Tony proposed a plan. The next night, when Agnes came in with her friends, the shop owner presented her with a birthday cake, and the patrons sang “Happy Birthday.” Agnes cried so hard that she could barely blow out the candles.

After Agnes left with her cake, the shop owner discovered that Tony was a preacher. When he asked what kind of church Tony attended, Tony said, “I go to a church that throws birthday parties for prostitutes at 3 a.m.” The man said, “No, you don’t; a church like that doesn’t exist. If it did, I would join.”

The truth is, God likes to hang out in donut shops at 3 a.m. to throw birthday parties for prostitutes. God resides in refugee camps where people have been displaced by war and genocide. God lives in the ghetto where single mothers do whatever they have to do to make ends meet. God shows up in exactly the kinds of places we least expect it; and God calls us to show up in those place as well.

When you think about it, our community bears some striking resemblances to Nineveh. We have a culture in which people who hold certain beliefs find themselves subject to hostility, particularly around the issue of responsible coal mining. We also bear the burden of immense poverty. In my line of work, I routinely speak to people who live on $1,000 a year, plus food stamps. A lack of opportunity and poor family structures have contributed to epidemic levels of drug abuse.

We don’t have to go far to find a Nineveh that God wants to transform. And, like Jonah, we are invited to be part of this transformation.

Of course, we know that Jonah didn’t make it to Tarshish; after a terrible storm, he is thrown overboard and swallowed by a big fish (or a whale, depending on which translation you’re reading). In the belly of the creature, Jonah has an epiphany and is spit back out onto the land. God again dispatches Jonah to Nineveh, and he goes; but even this time, he puts little effort into fulfilling his assignment. Jonah simply walks into town and speaks one sentence: “Forty more days and Nineveh will be overthrown.” No prescription for avoiding judgment; no call to repentance; just a simple, somewhat insincere pronouncement of destruction, then Jonah walks away and claims a front-row seat for the show.

The people of Nineveh, meanwhile, repent of their wickedness, and God decides not to destroy the city. Jonah gets angry and sulks, until he is confronted by God in the closing verses of the book. Here, again, is what God says to Jonah:

“Should I not have concern for the great city of Nineveh, in which there are more than a hundred and twenty thousand people who cannot tell their right hand from their left – and also many animals?”

The story of Jonah bears one more distinction: It’s the only book in the Bible to end with a question. And that question sheds light on another lesson, one that is especially poignant on this day, the 10^th anniversary of the terrorist attacks of September 11.

The question God poses to Jonah strikes at the heart of Jonah’s mistake. God reminds Jonah that Nineveh is not a caricature; it is a real place that is home to real people.

Like the terrorists who brought such destruction on our soil 10 years ago today, Jonah seems to have forgotten that “the enemy” has a face. The people of Nineveh were real men and real women and real children, many of whom were innocent. In questioning Jonah, God offers a reminder that those we would consider our enemies are real, living, breathing people – people who laugh, people who cry, people who love, people who feel pain. When we lose sight of this reality, we are incapable of loving our enemies, as Jesus commanded.

When a small group of terrorists failed to put a face on their enemy 10 years ago, they not only struck a blow to our nation; they irreversibly changed thousands of real lives – thousands of parents, thousands of children, thousands of spouses, thousands of friends. Likewise, when our nation retaliated, we not only avenged innocent deaths; we created more.

The implications of this lesson reverberate far beyond military strategy or foreign policy, right down to the depths of our personal lives. Whatever difference it is that we find intolerable in another person – whatever it is that causes us to label someone our enemy – if it defines that person for us, then we are in danger of losing sight of that person’s humanity.

So, who is your enemy? Is he someone of another religion? Is she someone whose sexual orientation is different from yours? Is he someone who is on the other side of the aisle politically?

A few years ago, I went to hear a well-known pastor speak on UK’s campus in Lexington. He took questions from the audience, and someone – one of the pastor’s many critics – quizzed him about his position on homosexuality. I’ll never forget part of his answer; he said, “I think, before any pastor preaches about it, he should make a gay friend.” What he was suggesting was simply that we are much more likely to show love and grace to a group of people if we have “put a face” on them. It’s easy to strongly criticize a group of people when you don’t know them. It’s much more difficult not to extend a measure of grace when you have established a mutually respectful relationship with someone in that group.

This, I believe, is the single greatest obstacle our political system faces today. Republicans and Democrats, particularly those in power, forgo relationships in favor of ideology. Republicans paint Democrats with one broad brush, and Democrats return the favor. In the process, both sides are reduced to mere caricatures, and gridlock is the result. You simply cannot find common ground when you have determined that the person sitting across from you is something less than a real person.

As we prepare to spend a few moments reflecting on the attacks of September 11^th, I would like to close with a story about how one unlikely relationship between Christians and Muslims forged another on the other side of the world.

Two years ago, a congregation of Muslims near Memphis, Tennessee, bought a piece of land to build a place of worship. The land was located next to a Methodist church. While some in the community spoke out against the proposed building, the church put up a banner welcoming their new neighbors, and the two congregations quickly established a friendship.

A few months later, with Ramadan approaching and their building still not finished, the Muslims asked for permission to use one of the church’s classrooms for their Ramadan observances. Instead, the church offered the use of its sanctuary for the entire month.

In the months since then, the two congregations have worked side-by-side at homeless shelters and in other community service projects. Their story has been featured on national news. A CNN report caught the attention of a community in a predominantly Muslim country across the world – a group that had been persecuting a local Christian church. One of the Muslim leaders contacted the pastor of Heartsong Church and told him that they had been so moved by the story of Heartsong’s response to their neighbors that they had decided to take care of the Christian church in their community – to help them maintain their building and protect them from persecution.

This is what happens when we put a face on our perceived enemies. And this is what will change the world.

May we be mindful of our calling and faithful to bring God’s message of love to our own Ninevehs. May we put a face on our enemies and begin to realize that we really aren’t that different. And on this day we remember terrible loss, may God speed the day when the Kingdom is fully come, the day when all the nations will beat their swords into plowshares and no longer train for war.

A Theology of Money and Stuff

Some relationships are tortured. Think George Jones and Tammy Wynette. Or Alec Baldwin and Kim Basinger. Or Eminem and Kim.

Or, me and tithing.

The biblical (in some schools of thought) practice of giving 10 percent of one's income to one's church was pounded into my head from childhood -- even though I thought back then that people were talking about "paying ties," which made no sense to me. I never questioned the concept of tithing growing up.

But then I turned 18 and started questioning everything.

I wrestled with the question of whether or not I had to tithe -- and felt plenty guilty when I didn't -- before finally doing a little research  and realizing that Jesus never talked about tithing (except to criticize the Pharisees and their ilk for doing it while neglecting mercy).

Problem solved -- temporarily.

Not long after reaching a conclusion, I read Donald Miller's "Blue Like Jazz," in which the writer devotes a whole chapter to the importance of giving 10 percent of our resources to God. As Miller was someone whose opinions I greatly respected (and still do, for the most part), I found myself back in the ring for a rematch.

Later, I learned to embrace tithing, but in a different way. Rather than looking at it as a requirement mandated by God (which the New Testament does not seem to suggest), I began to view it as an act of discipline, a choice to deny myself by giving something away -- something that wasn't always convenient. This has been my approach to tithing over the last few years.

Recently, though, I had an epiphany.

It happened as I was finishing a book by Charlie Peacock. "A New Way To Be Human" (the title of which was borrowed from a Switchfoot song and album) is Peacock's manifesto about embracing the Kingdom of God in our daily lives.

At the end of the book, Peacock offers some thoughts, in list format, about what he calls "ten essential 'first things' in the new way." Number 9 on the list is, "Let the Story and the new way of Jesus reinvent your understanding of wealth."

In elaborating on this concept, Peacock wrote the following:

"As far as tithing goes, forget it. In the new way, student-followers give 100 percent.You pray, 'God, everything I have is from you. How do you want me to use it in making the kingdom visible and declaring your rightness and excellence?'"

The reason the Pharisees were so meticulous in their tithing was that it allowed them to measure their holiness against someone else's. The thinking was something like this: "I give not only 10 percent of my money, but also 10 percent of everything in my home, right down to the spices I put in my pot roast. You, on the other hand, only give 10 percent of your money; and there was that one time you got ripped off by one of those slimy tax collectors and didn't have anything left to give. Ergo, I'm holier than you."

A less-defined kind of 100-percent giving, as Peacock outlines, takes away the ability to measure one's piety, because virtually any part of our lives can be lived in this new way.

My 100-percent giving might involve giving money to my church (which I do regularly). It might also involve giving money or a bag of unwanted clothes or a box of non-perishable food to a homeless shelter. It might even involve going out to dinner with friends and picking up the check -- the community you can experience sitting around a table and having a meal together is most assuredly a Kingdom thing. (It might -- and I believe it should -- involve leaving a generous tip for the waiters or waitresses who bring our food, people who are too often treated poorly; it's sad, but I've heard it said that food service people dread the after-church crowd on Sundays, because the diners are so rude.)

Likewise, it might involve the money I invest in building a deck behind my house, where people can come hang out and we can enjoy a hamburger together as we discuss how we might work to see God's will done on earth as it is in heaven. It might involve the cash I spend on a cup of coffee to sit down with a friend and talk about the dreams God has planted within us, or about the struggles we face or our need to be held accountable for our actions and attitudes.

It might involve the cost of driving to Frankfort every February to make my voice heard as I advocate for responsible treatment of our resources and justice for the poor who suffer when coal companies go unchecked in their destruction of our mountains and water supplies. It might involve the money we spend each year for vacation -- a time to decompress, recharge our batteries and renew our commitment to one another and to the vision God has given us.

The parameters are virtually limitless. The key is being sensitive to the Spirit of God and knowing what we feel God is leading us to do with our resources -- both money and stuff.

You don't have to agree with me. If you feel strongly about tithing, by all means, go ahead. But if, like me, you've found the whole idea hard to reconcile with everything else you know to be true about God -- or if you have been turned off by the umpteen messages you've heard preached about it -- I invite you join me in 100-percent giving.

Sodom, Tsaaq and One Big Misconception

Recently, I was made aware of a statement Keith Olbermann made on his TV show in support of gay marriage. I posted the video clip on my Facebook page and was soon answered by a friend who does not share my opinion. When I shared my belief that one's feelings about the morality of the issue should be completely separate from whether or not gay marriage was legal, he shared his fear that God would rain fire down from heaven if we ever legalize gay marriage, citing every evangelical's favorite anti-gay story: The Genesis 19 account of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.

Over the past few weeks, I have been reading the book of Genesis, and as fate would have it, a recent morning found me perusing chapter 19. I was struck by something that now seems obvious:

The story of Sodom and Gomorrah has about as much to do with the gay marriage debate as a baseball glove has to do with gravy and biscuits. (Which is to say, nothing.)

When I read the story in The Message, I found the angels telling Lot that they were sent to destroy the city because "the outcries of victims here to God are deafening" (emphasis mine). This is a stark contrast to the way I always heard the story growing up -- that God was so disgusted by "those men and their lifestyle" that they just had to be annihilated.

So maybe this is just The Message, right? Maybe ol' Eugene Peterson softened it a bit, watered down the message so it wouldn't be so offensive?

Nope.

The word rendered "outcry" is the Hebrew word tsaaq (or sa'aq). The connotation is a cry of pain, the wounded cry of an oppressed person or a victim. Even in the original language, God is moved to act by the cries of victims.

It's not hard to imagine what sort of victims we might be dealing with here. In the story, a group of men who lived in the city stormed Lot's house and demanded that he send out his guests so they could have their way with them (sexually).

The sexual orientation of the men is not the issue. The issue is that these men were rapists, that they preyed on the weak.

It wasn't homosexuality that set God off; it was injustice.

So what do we do with this story? Do we ignore it? Assume that, if we dismiss it as a warning against homosexuality, there's nothing left for us to learn from it?

I don't think so. I think the story is a warning, and one that we would do well to heed today. It's just not warning us of what most evangelicals think.

It's a warning that God takes it very seriously when we victimize. When we oppress. When we dehumanize. When we prey on those who are weaker. When we do those things by commission, or by omission.

It's a warning to the bankers and CEOs who have made fortunes off the pain and suffering of those who have lost their homes. It's a warning to the surface mine operators who rake in piles of money while poisoning the water supply of those who live nearby. It's a warning to those who turn a blind eye to the poor, who ignore the plight of those who are suffering.

It's a warning to me. It's a warning to you.

Take heed.

New approaches

I opened the July issue of Sojourners this evening and came across an excellent column by Cathleen Falsani. She wrote about the recent formation of One Wheaton, which she describes as "an organization dedicated to showing solidarity and love for gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender students" at Falsani's alma mater, a traditional evangelical college. Wheaton College, in other words, is one of the last places one would expect to find such an organization.

On more than a few occasions, I have been reminded by other Christians that we have a responsibility to tell people when they're behaving wrongly. The metaphor I commonly hear is the burning house; perhaps you've heard it, too. It goes something like this: If your neighbor's house is on fire, you're not being very loving if you don't try to wake your neighbor up and let him know that his house is on fire.

At some point, Christians have to figure out that this method of "converting sinners" just ain't working.

In her column, Falsani recounts the story of another Wheaton student who stepped in front of a train due to the conflicting feelings he felt regarding his sexuality and the way he would be received on campus if he came out. Being told his house was on fire didn't help him very much, did it?

If the Christian community continues to vilify the LGBT community, and if the LGBT community continues to fail to respond in the way the Christian community would like, and the Christian community responds by vilifying the LGBT community even more loudly, the game has changed entirely. All of a sudden, the object isn't really to change anything about anyone; it's simply to prove how right you are. A sincere desire to change someone would lead to a completely different approach.

One of the greatest examples I have heard of finding a new approach comes from Southland Christian Church in Lexington. The church has a ministry in which a group of women take food to strip clubs and serve the dancers. No yelling; no picketing; no assurances of coming judgment. Just a home-cooked meal for some women who are often treated as something less than human beings.

For far too long, Christians have chosen an approach that alienates the world around them. An approach that reaffirms a person's status as sub-human. An approach that occasionally pushes someone in front of a train.

Time to stop worrying about being right. Time to start loving people.

This is why I'm encouraged by One Wheaton. I pray others will follow suit.

Imagine it: A group of LGBT supporters springing up on the campus of Liberty University or Regent University or any of the other hotbeds of evangelicalism.

Now, that would be something.

Adventures in Missing the Point

(Over the past couple of months, I have had a couple of opportunities to speak at First Presbyterian Church in Harlan, where my family has been attending since the beginning of the year. Below is the text of my sermon from a couple of weeks ago, based on Acts 1:6-14.

Other scriptures in the lectionary readings for that day included John 17:1-19 , 1 Peter 4:12-14, and 1 Peter 5:6-11.)

A couple of years ago, I attended a rally. Ashley Judd spoke, and I remember her talking about the times when God uses apparent coincidences to call your attention to something. She called those moments “God-winks.”

I think I experienced a few of those as I was preparing for today. First, Jamie spoke a couple of weeks ago – and did a fantastic job – and his sermon went along with what I was already thinking about; then, I read an article on the Internet that further pushed my thinking in this direction; and a few days ago, I listened to a sermon online that touched on the same themes. So I’m thinking this is what I was meant to talk about today.

I would actually like to spend most of my time this morning exploring the passage from Acts that we read a few moments ago.

Our reading from the first chapter of Acts finds Jesus’ disciples doing something they were particularly good at: missing the point. They’re spending some final moments with Jesus, and we can safely assume they sensed something was about to happen. So, their response to that feeling was to ask a question.

“Are you going to free us from Rome now? Is this the time you’ll vanquish our oppressors and take the throne?”

These men who had traveled with Jesus for three years, who should have known him better than anybody, still didn’t get it. They still didn’t understand that he was not that kind of King.

They asked the wrong question.

Jesus had already made his intentions clear. He expressly noted in the prayer he prayed in John 17 that he would no longer be in the world, and that his followers were not of this world. A few hours later, as he stood on trial before Pilate, Jesus said that his kingdom was not of this world, that it was rooted in something deeper than the present reality.

Over and over throughout his ministry, Jesus has reiterated to his followers that he will not be a Lord of war. Repeatedly, he tells them that his way has nothing to do with political power. Yet, in the final moments before his earthly ministry comes to a final end, they ask him again if he is going to exact revenge on Rome.

Jesus doesn’t get frustrated. He doesn’t lecture; he doesn’t criticize. He simply says, “You’re focusing on the wrong thing.” He tells them that the Holy Spirit is coming, and that they will then become his witnesses. When he said they would be his witnesses, I think he was thinking of something bigger than simply affirming what they had seen him do. Perhaps it’s more accurate to say that Jesus intended for his disciples to become witnesses of the Kingdom of God.

Here’s what I mean: I have been a Chicago Cubs fan since I was eight years old. I can tell you about a game I have attended, and you’re not likely to care. Or, I can tell you why I am a Cubs fan. I can tell you about Mark Grace and Ryne Sandberg and Greg Maddux and Harry Caray and “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” and 40,000 fans dancing and singing “Go Cubs Go” at Wrigley Field after a win. Which of those is more likely to appeal to you?

Likewise, Jesus’ followers could bear witness to the fact that they had seen Jesus; that they had walked with him; that they had watched him perform miracles; that they had heard his teaching. Or, they could bear witness to the reality that he introduced – the reality that God has a dream for our world, and that we are invited to join in bringing that dream into reality.

The concept of the Kingdom of God was incredibly subversive and countercultural in the time of the early church. Most Jews adopted one of four responses to the Roman Empire. The Herodians and Sadducees aligned themselves with Rome in hopes of keeping the peace and maybe changing things from within. The Zealots stirred up violent rebellions in hopes of overthrowing the empire. The Pharisees strived for stricter adherence to the law in hopes of appeasing God and ending what they perceived as the nation’s punishment. The Essenes simply withdrew into the desert and lived in solitude.

Into this diverse mix of ideologies stepped Jesus. Rather than endorsing any of the existing approaches to the empire, he taught a brand-new concept: That there was a kingdom larger and broader and much more powerful than the Roman Empire. Rather than being primarily concerned with how to relate to the empire, Jesus taught his followers to strive instead to live a life that was pleasing to a King who was far greater than Caesar. He took away the emperor’s power by virtually ignoring him to pledge allegiance to the ruler of a kingdom that was not of this world.

Despite their misguided question before his ascension, the disciples continued Jesus’ approach. The early church did not focus its energies on trying to free itself of the rule of the Roman Empire, but rather on how to be the body of Christ whether the empire was in power or not. Far more frequent in the epistles are encouragements like the one we read from Peter this morning – reminders that our suffering will not last forever, that God will eventually set the world right. In fact, the epistle writers only make reference to the empire on a very few occasions, and most of those are admonishments to be respectful to those in authority.

I’d love to be able to say that this lesson was learned once and for all, but I can’t. Throughout the centuries, Christians have shown a stubborn tendency to focus on asserting how right they are or flexing their political muscles. We could talk about Constantine, the Crusades, the more violent aspects of the Reformation, or the Salem witch trials, just to name a few examples.

Our approach in the 21^st century might be less bloody, but it’s no less an adventure in missing the point. Turn on Christian radio sometime. You’ll probably find a lot of name-calling and criticism of this group of people or that church’s doctrine. You’ll probably hear a lot of discussions about how Christians should bombard their political leaders with phone calls and e-mails and letters to get them to support certain legislation. What you won’t hear is a lot of discussion about how the body of Christ can work to heal a broken world, about justice and mercy and walking humbly with our God.

One of my favorite musical artists is a guy named Derek Webb. Several years ago, Derek wrote a song called “T-Shirts.” I would like to read you a few portions of the lyrics:

“They’ll know us by the T-shirts that we wear/They’ll know us by the way we point and stare/At anyone whose sin looks worse than ours/Who cannot hide the scars/Of this curse that we all bear”

“They’ll know us by our picket lines and signs/They’ll know us by the pride we hide behind/Like anyone on earth is living right/And isn’t that why Jesus died/And not to make us think we’re right?”

“When love, love, love/Is what we should be known for/Love, love, love/It’s the how and it’s the why/We live and breathe and we die”

It’s natural to want to be validated. If the God we serve is all-powerful, it’s understandable that we would want God to show the world around us that our beliefs are correct. We’re not unlike the Herodians or the Zealots or the Pharisees in Jesus’ day, jockeying to get God to endorse our various positions.

But just as Jesus refused them, he refuses us. Just as he offered them an alternative, so he does for us today. He invites us to deny ourselves, to lay aside our desire to be right, so that we can go in peace to love and to serve the Lord.

I once heard someone say that we are like wine connoisseurs when we debate doctrine or theology. Wine connoisseurs can discuss the merits of various kinds of wine – the bouquet, how this wine has an oaky finish or that wine has notes of coriander and lavender, or whatever. (Is it obvious that this is not my area of expertise?) The problem is, we’re debating the fine points of wine, while there’s a world around us in desperate need of water.

The world is not changed when we prove the validity of our beliefs. Food is not put into hungry bellies when we argue over doctrinal differences. Broken lives aren’t mended when we protest or e-mail our senators. God’s will is not done on earth as it is in heaven when we put this political party or that political party in power.

Those things happen when we live up to our calling as the body of Christ. Let us make that our priority.

Outcry

Perhaps my favorite thing about Facebook is that my friends keep me informed of things I probably wouldn't be aware of otherwise.

Recently, a friend posted a story about two mentally challenged gay men who were forced to leave a public swimming pool in Hazard. When the official who asked them to leave was challenged on the issue, he reportedly responded that he could take this action because "the Bible" gave him the right to do so. (The story can be found here.)

I find this story to be embarrassing, as a follower of Christ and as a resident of eastern Kentucky. On behalf of all those who follow Christ, and on behalf of my eastern Kentucky neighbors, I would like to offer an apology, and to assure those two men and all who are following this story that we don't all share the sentiments of this official.

I can hear many of my evangelical friends getting in a twist already, griping about how messed up our world is when even Christians "support that sinful lifestyle." Here's what I would like to ask you to do: Forget about sin for just a minute. Whether it's a sin or not to be gay is a debate somebody else can have - I'm not interested. And it's beside the point anyway.

The point is this: We don't kick people out of a pool because they're gluttons. We don't make people leave restaurants because they have too much pride - even though the Bible states in no uncertain terms that God hates pride.

So, even if you feel that being gay is a sin, why treat it differently than any other sin?

That's just wrong.

I suppose I'm dreaming, but here's what I'd like to see: I would like to see Christ-followers of all theological and doctrinal stripes stand up and decry this humiliating act of discrimination. I already expect a huge public outcry; but it sure would be nice if that outcry came from the body of Christ.

Anybody care to join me in dreaming that dream?