Driscoll's Rambo Jesus: or, Prophets Versus Peacemakers

Mark Driscoll is an interesting character. One of the most influential ministers in America, Driscoll started Mars Hill Church in Seattle when he was 25 years old. Formerly part of the "Emergent" church movement, Driscoll later distanced himself from the movement and is now one of the most vocal critics of leaders like Brian McLaren and Rob Bell (guys I very much consider influences, which might give you some indication of my perception of Driscoll).

Driscoll has long embraced a "man's man" image - one of his biggest criticisms of leaders like McLaren is their portrayal of Jesus as someone who embraced peace. In a 2007 article in Relevant magazine, Driscoll famously said, "In Revelation, Jesus is a (prize) fighter with a tattoo down his leg, a sword in his hand and the commitment to make someone bleed. That is a guy I can worship. I cannot worship the hippie, diaper, halo Christ because I cannot worship a guy I can beat up."

This statement is so wrong -- and terrifying -- that I can't begin to unpack it. Suffice it to say that any of us could indeed beat Jesus up -- you know, because of that whole "turn the other cheek" thing.

Driscoll has recently emerged (pun intended) in the news because of the publication of his new book -- "Real Marriage: The Truth About Sex, Friendship, and Life Together," written by Driscoll and his wife, Grace. Come to think of it, Grace might be Driscoll's only female friend, given some of his views on the role of women, particularly in ministry -- upon the election of the first female bishop in the Episcopal Church, Driscoll blogged, "If Christian males do not man up soon, the Episcopalians may vote a fluffy baby bunny rabbit as their next bishop to lead God's men."

In the immortal words of Dave Barry, I am not making this up.

While I was in Lexington for work recently, I met my buddy Caleb and his fiancee, Janie, for a Malibu veggie pizza and a Magic Hat #9 at Old Chicago Pizza. (My meal would've given Driscoll a headache -- I would earn man points for the beer, but lose them for the veggie pizza.)

Anyway, Driscoll came up in our conversation -- in part because Janie posted a link on Facebook recently detailing a radio interview Driscoll did in Great Britain. I would encourage you to read the entire thing, but if you'd rather not, here's a summary: Driscoll suggests that ministers in the UK are cowards; then proceeds to criticize the host's wife, who is a pastor; then, tangentially, begins to grill the host on his views about hell, eventually telling him to stop "drinking decaf" and get "more courage."

Caleb said that he is hesitant to publicly dive into the Driscoll controversy, primarily because he doesn't want to call attention to Driscoll's egomaniacal drivel (my words, not his).

I must admit that I have wrestled with this as well.

As I mentioned in a recent blog, I used to write a monthly "Faith and Culture" column for the newspaper where I worked as the sports editor. More often than not, I used that forum to try to convince people that Christianity wasn't what its loudest voices said it was. I hoped to communicate that many of us who are passionately committed to following Christ do not share many of the opinions of James Dobson, Jerry Falwell, and Fred Phelps ... and, now, Mark Driscoll.

I think part of the reason this is ingrained in me is because I know people who cannot accept faith in God as valid if it means swallowing what these guys are dishing out. It's heart-breaking to think of those who are hostile to the faith as a result of the things they've heard about what God is like from some self-appointed mouthpiece. I can relate to that hostility, because if I believed God was the way God is portrayed by these folks, I probably would not want to be a Christ-follower either.

Someone I'm very close to regularly encourages me to keep speaking up; she tells me that the things I write help keep alive at least a small interest in Christ. I would hope this is the case for others as well.

On the other side is the reality -- sometimes a very uncomfortable reality for me -- that Driscoll and Dobson are my brothers. As much as I would like to, I cannot disown them. To do so only intensifies the fracturing that plagues the body of Christ, and makes me as guilty of closing the borders as they are.

So the question becomes: How do I reconcile the two? How do I decry the hurtful words and actions of others who profess faith in Jesus, without showing the same disdain to them that they show to others?

I don't have a completely satisfactory answer. And, to be honest, the Bible is little help. On the one hand, we are clearly commanded to love one another and to be gentle in our dealings with one another. On the other hand, we find that Jesus saved his harshest words for the religious elite of his day -- those who "strained at gnats and swallowed camels," who observed the law to the letter while neglecting the more important matters of doing justly, loving mercy and walking humbly with God.

We are called to be peacemakers, but we are also called to speak prophetically against injustice -- and Driscoll's male-supremacy, homophobic, war-mongering, egomaniacal teachings are decidedly unjust. How does one function simultaneously as a prophet and a peacemaker?

A very similar issue arose in our Bible study not long ago, and it was suggested that perhaps motive is everything. If I repudiate Driscoll's words to start a battle of egos, to prove how right I am or how orthodox my theology is in relation to his, then my effort is wasted and I am as guilty as the man I'm criticizing.

Perhaps it's a different story, however, if I do it out of a genuine concern for those who are confused or wounded by his words; then, it would seem that my actions are more in line with the way of Jesus. At that point, it isn't about me; it's about those Driscoll would rather exclude. It's about helping those hurting, rejected people to know that there is room for them in the expansive Kingdom of God.

Maybe I don't have this exactly right. I want to walk that line, but I'm certain I make a misstep from time to time. But I will go on believing that, at the end of the day, God knows my intentions. I will go on believing that I can make a difference. And, most of all, I will go on believing that love will eventually trump every form of hate -- even the forms that are dressed up in God-talk.

(Note: For a couple of other reads about the Driscoll controversy, check out Mark Sandlin's post on The God Article and a piece on Rachel Held Evans' blog.)

What We Don't Understand

"'That's just the way it is.' But don't you believe them." - Bruce Hornsby

Last weekend, my wife and I took our daughter to watch the re-release of Disney's "Beauty and the Beast" -- skipping the 3D, which seemed quite pointless for a cartoon. We have seen the movie roughly 447 times in the past couple of years, as my daughter keeps it in heavy rotation at our house -- but, of course, seeing movies in the theater is a different experience and merits the trip, especially if you catch the lower-priced matinee.

If you do not have daughters or have otherwise been able to avoid the movie, it's about a prince who was turned into a hideous beast because he had no love in his heart. He must find someone to love, and earn her love in return, before he can become human again. He takes an old man prisoner after the man hides in his castle while seeking shelter, and later falls for the man's daughter, Belle, after she agrees to take her father's place.

I'm not ashamed to tell you that the movie's music -- which includes three Oscar-nominated songs -- is well-written and catchy. I've regularly found myself whistling "Be Our Guest" over the last few days.

And it was a line from a lesser-known song in the film that caught my ear and made me think as I struggled to stay warm in the ice-cold theater.

Late in the movie, Belle's would-be suitor, Gaston, convinces the villagers that the Beast must be hunted down and killed -- ostensibly for safety, but really because Gaston is jealous of Belle's love for the Beast. As the villagers are marching through the forest toward the Beast's castle, they sing "The Mob Song," which includes the lyric, "We don't like what we don't understand; in fact, it scares us." Rather than attempting to find out whether the Beast was dangerous or not, they would rather get rid of him than take the chance.

I couldn't help thinking of how this is an apt description of 21st century Christians. We immediately reject what we don't understand. Mystery can lead to questions, and questions can lead to people reaching different conclusions; and since orthodoxy must be protected at all costs, mystery is a door we'd prefer to keep locked up tightly.

Several years ago, when I was working as the sports editor at a small, daily newspaper, I also wrote a monthly Faith and Culture column. When the film adaptation of "The Da Vinci Code" was released in 2006, I wrote a column in which I quoted one of my favorite writers. Paul Prather, a pastor and columnist for the Lexington Herald-Leader, had recently written about the platitudes he was receiving from well-meaning people after losing his wife to cancer the year before.

As I reflected on the villagers' line in "Beauty and the Beast," I thought of the Prather quote I included in that column five years ago:

"If what you've believed is the truth, the truth can always stand up to scrutiny. And if what you've believed won't survive examination, why would you want to hold onto it? Who wants to entrust his eternal destiny to a myth?"

It's always amazing to me how God finds ways to emphasize these points to me once I start thinking about something. The day after we watched "Beauty and the Beast," I was listening to a podcast of a sermon from Mars Hill Bible Church. Shane Hipps read the Acts story of Philip and the Ethiopian. As a eunuch, the Ethiopian could not be circumcised (because ... um ... he didn't have anything to circumcise). And according to Jewish law, a man who was not circumcised would not be accepted by God. But Philip ignored this detail and baptized the man anyway.

In fact, by most conventions, the man would be unacceptable today. As Shane pointed out, the hormonal imbalances caused by castration often led to eunuchs taking on very feminine qualities -- in other words, it's very likely that the Ethiopian would be considered transgendered. Yet Philip bucked convention and baptized this uncircumcised, effeminate Ethiopian eunuch. As a result, Ethiopia has one of the largest Christian populations in that part of the world, and the Ethiopian church traces its roots back to a certain eunuch.

Good thing Philip didn't just reject what he didn't understand.

There are some rotten things about the world we live in. Our planet is witnessing an ever-growing gap between the richest and the poorest; and our excesses are beginning to catch up with us. Our nation has a toxic political system that punishes those who are willing to compromise and glorifies those who perpetuate gridlock. Our state, and especially my corner of it, is held hostage by an industry that convinces us it's our only hope for survival, when in reality it's destroying our health and our land.

We can accept the way things are, or we can dare to boldly ask why they should be that way.

Martin Luther King chose the latter, and sparked a movement that changed the face of the nation. Gandhi chose the latter, and won independence for his country.

What could we accomplish?

Whatever is True

"Christian is a great noun but a poor adjective." -- Rob Bell in Velvet Elvis: Repainting the Christian Faith

One of my favorite people in the whole world is my friend Caleb. I first met Caleb in the summer of 2004, when he was a teenager and was serving in my town as a missionary for the summer. I remember the first time I saw him at church; dressed up, tie and all, but sporting a heavy beard and shaggy hair.

In the years since, we have become very close friends -- and his beard has grown much, much longer. We occasionally come to different conclusions on issues, but we have much in common: our steady opposition to mountaintop removal (we attended I Love Mountains Day together last year, along with his fiancee, Janie), our deep appreciation for Wendell Berry's work, our love for The Boss (although mine far outweighs his!). Probably my favorite thing about Caleb is that he seems more comfortable in his own skin than anybody I know. The guy is absolutely unpretentious, in a way I wish I could be.

(None of that has anything to do with what I want to write about; I just wanted to introduce you to my friend.)

Caleb is also an extremely talented writer who has completed a first draft of a book (which I have had the privilege of proofreading) and has a number of blogs with various themes. I find the most recent addition to be fascinating. In "Twelve Months of Change," Caleb will be facing a different challenge, a la Morgan Spurlock, for each month of 2012. His first mission: He is spending the month of January on an exclusive diet of Christian music.

Now, before you rush to judgment, I should tell you that Caleb has no illusions about this particular venture. He writes:

"I'm worried that this move could be viewed as Pharisaical or legalistic. As I've stated earlier, I've heard from God numerous times through so-called 'secular' artists and just because an album is sold in a Christian bookstore does not mean that the artist's heart is pure. I do not believe that listening to only Christian music will somehow get me in good with 'the Man upstairs' or incline God toward answering my prayers. It won't even make me more holy -- so this experiment is not exactly about that."

So please don't think that my writing is in any way intended to belittle or criticize my friend's challenge -- as I stated earlier, I find it fascinating. I'm only weighing in because his experiment has got me thinking about truth.

My upbringing was not all that different from Caleb's -- we both grew up in church. In fact, "heavily involved" barely begins to describe my association with my church's youth group throughout my teenage years; I practically lived at church. I recall, at various times during those years, facing the supposed "big issue" of whether or not it was OK to listen to music that wasn't "Christian" (by which I mean music made by Christians and marketed to a Christian audience). The scripture that was frequently used to answer this question was Philippians 4:8, which reads, "Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable -- if anything is excellent or praiseworthy -- think about such things" (NIV). Somehow, this was (mis)taken as another way of saying, "Yes, Jarrod, you should only listen to 'Christian' music."

(I'm quite embarrassed to admit this now, but I recall one revival-fueled episode during my teenage years in which several people from the church -- myself included -- made a bonfire, into which we cast all of our "sinful" stuff: CDs, movies, and the like. Thankfully, this didn't set me back a great deal, as I had very little "secular" music in my collection at that point.)

Fast-forward about 15 years. I still think Philippians 4:8 is a great measuring stick for the music I enjoy -- but now I understand it completely differently.

In particular, the beginning and end of Paul's admonition -- "whatever is true" and "if anything is excellent or praiseworthy" -- suggest something much broader than music that fits neatly into the "Christian" category. For that matter, the lion's share of Christian music is neither "excellent" nor "praiseworthy" -- and, in some ways, perhaps isn't even "true."

Here's what I mean by that last part: A lot of Christian music conveys a message along the lines of, "Life really sucked, and then I found Jesus, and now everything is wonderful." If you have followed Christ for any amount of time, you probably learned really quickly that life is still not wonderful -- at least not all the time. Even when there is some measure of honesty and conflict in Christian music, it's typically the kind that is resolved in two verses and a bridge ("Things are really bad; oh, wait, I'm having an epiphany; and now things are really good").

Contrast this with one of my current favorite albums. Having received some iTunes gift cards for Christmas, I set about downloading some new music last week and ended up selecting Amos Lee's 2011 release "Mission Bell." Usually, music takes a couple of listens to grow on me. Not so with Mr. Lee's album -- I loved it instantly.

You want truth? Several of Lee's songs are, for all intents and purposes, modern-day Psalms. Take "Violin" for example ("Oh, God, why you been hangin' out in that ol' violin while I've been waiting for you to pull me through?"). Or "Jesus" ("I remember when I was wild and free ... my heart was a skipping stone ... You know, I never thought that you hated me, but I've never felt so alone"). Or "Cup of Sorrow," which expresses a willingness to participate in suffering as a show of solidarity with those who are suffering ("I send a prayer out across the ocean, to a man who's being forced out of his home; I send a prayer out across the ocean, so that he may not suffer there alone").

This is truth -- and, according to Paul, that makes it worth thinking about.

Or, look at Johnny Cash. While everything the Man in Black did in his twilight years was amazing, my favorite of the American recordings was the first one released after his death. "American V: A Hundred Highways" features a very frail Cash, reeling from the death of his wife and close to death himself, singing songs of pain and desperation ("Help Me," "On the Evening Train," "If You Could Read My Mind") and taking a long look at the end of his life ("Like the 309," "Further On (Up the Road)," "I'm Free from the Chain Gang Now").

Every adjective Paul uses to describe the things we should think about -- true, lovely, excellent, and so forth -- is encapsulated in "American V."

I have long been fascinated with the prophets in the Hebrew scriptures. The prophets were, above all else, truth-tellers. That truth might call the people out for some social injustice or moral deficiency; it might be a soothing balm that healed where someone was hurting; or it might simply give voice to the nation's pain.

My musical hero, Bruce Springsteen, has made a career of this (you knew I couldn't write this post without mentioning Bruce, right?). From exposing injustice in "The Ghost of Tom Joad" to decrying the Iraq War in "Devils and Dust," The Boss has spoken truth in a way many saccharine-sweet Christian artists cannot approach.

Perhaps his most prophetic work was done in 2002 with the release of "The Rising." Recorded in response to the horrendous events of 9/11, the album is simultaneously a funeral dirge ("You're Missing," "Waiting on a Sunny Day") and a call to celebration (the title track, "Mary's Place"). One song, "My City of Ruin," is both -- from lamenting the destruction the narrator sees around him to urging listeners to "rise up" and praying "for the strength, Lord."

Regrettably, my appreciation for The Boss had not yet blossomed back when "The Rising" was released; but I've listened to several live performances from the tour on E Street Radio (thank God for Sirius XM) and recently watched  a concert DVD recorded in Barcelona in 2002, and have never failed to be deeply moved by the power and timeliness of the songs.

(In doing research for this post, I came across an excellent piece about the importance of "The Rising" here.)

Moving past the "truth" test, Christian music regularly fails the "excellence" test.

To be sure, there are a few artists in the Christian music genre who take their art seriously and consistently put out high-quality music. David Crowder is awesome and willing to take risks -- who else needs both turntables and banjos in the studio? Derek Webb is fearless, taking stands that are far from popular with many Christian music fans. Artists like Andrew Peterson write songs that ask questions and inspire.

But these are exceptions. Generally, Christian music is to music what Hunt's is to ketchup -- a knockoff that is clearly inferior to the original.

(Sidebar: Probably my favorite episode of "Seinfeld" was the "Jesus fish" episode, in which Elaine is shocked to find that Puddy's car radio presets are Christian music stations. "I like Christian rock," George chimes in. "It's very positive. It's not like those real musicians who think they're so cool and hip." Classic.)

Finally, in a broader sense, I have a problem with the whole concept of "Christian" music. I fully resonate with the Rob Bell quote at the beginning of this post. We have created an entire Christian subculture that insulates Christians from the outside world -- we can listen to Christian music, attend Christian movies, vacation at Christian theme parks, read Christian newspapers, even freshen our breath with Christian gum bought from a Christian dollar store (sadly, I'm not kidding).

I stumbled across a blog by a fellow apparently named Scott Baker while I was researching. (I should really do this more often -- finding lots of great stuff!) If you don't want to read the whole thing, here's part of what Baker had to say:

"There's no such thing as a 'Christian song,' or a 'Christian book,' or a 'Christian nation.' There are only Christians who do, say, and act. And there is no song, book, speech, or act that is 'un-Christian' either."

If God is the author of truth, then we must accept that all truth is God's truth -- whether it comes through an "approved" instrument or not.

After all, God apparently spoke through a donkey once. Is it so hard to believe that God can speak through a musician or writer who does not believe in God? Or through a movie? Or through the crazy guy you run into outside your office? Or through your Rice Krispies? Well, OK, maybe that's going too far...

Again, I am enjoying following Caleb's blog as he completes Jesus Music January. (And Caleb, if you read this, I will remind you that Crowder's final album comes out Tuesday!) But for those of you who might think Caleb's challenge should last longer than a month -- like, say, the rest of his life -- I encourage you to pursue truth where you find it. God's bigger than your Christian box, after all.

Preparing the way

It makes me sad to realize that I haven't posted anything in two months. Our lives have been an almost-constant flurry of activity since November started, and blogging - along with many other things - has gone on the back burner. I intend to be more consistent about this in the coming year; but that's a post for sometime next week.

At any rate, I have a few days off for Christmas and thought I'd take a moment to offer a short reflection. Over the past few days, I have been reading the accounts of the birth of Christ found in the gospels of Matthew and Luke. For anyone (like me) who grew up in church, these stories can become so familiar that we are no longer moved by them - kind of a paradoxical unfamiliarity through familiarity. So I've really made an effort to read them with fresh eyes this week.

One of the ways I've attempted to do this is by trying to put myself in the position of some of the key players - trying to imagine how they would have felt as they lived out their part in this incredible story. Yesterday, I read the conclusion of the first chapter of Luke, which includes the birth of Jesus' cousin and future forerunner, John (who would later eat bugs and be known as "the Baptist"). I was moved by the words of his father, Zachariah:

"And you, my child, 'Prophet of the Highest,' will go ahead of the Master to prepare his ways, present the offer of salvation to his people, the forgiveness of their sins. Through the heartfelt mercies of our God, God's Sunrise will break in upon us, shining on those in darkness, those sitting in the shadow of death, then showing us the way, one foot at a time, down the path of peace." (Luke 1:76-79, The Message)

John's work of "preparing the way" -  of presenting a new possibility to the people, the possibility of having their sins forgiven - sets the stage for an in-breaking of light; it opens the door for God to more fully arrive on the scene.

Our calling is not that different today. We also have the opportunity to "prepare the way," by telling people that God has a dream for the world, that a better world is possible, that a better way of life is available. (Jesus referred to this as the Kingdom of God.) This was ultimately what John did, preaching essentially the same message that Jesus did: "Repent, for the kingdom of God is at hand." This is often misunderstood to mean, "Be sorry for your sins, because you're running out of time and God is about to cut you down," when a much better understanding is, "Change the way you think about the world, because God's dream is ready to become reality."

As people respond to the invitation to change their minds and live better lives, the world is slowly but surely changed. God arrives; chaos is replaced with peace; the oppressed receive justice; the poor find their needs met. The Kingdom of God, the dream of God, takes another step toward completion.

So let us live our lives to prepare the way for a new King - one who will "take over the running of the world. His names will be: Amazing Counselor, Strong God, Eternal Father, Prince of Wholeness. His ruling authority will grow, and there'll be no limits to the wholeness he brings" (Isaiah 9:6-7, The Message).

Merry Christmas, and a blessed New Year!

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 :)

* * *

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.