Don't Forget the Words
28/05/24 06:58
Not long ago, I re-read Elisabeth Elliott's Through Gates of Splendor , penned in 1956. If you’re not familiar with the book, it’s the true story of five missionaries—including her husband—who were slain by the Auca Indians of Ecuador earlier that decade. I was completely pulled into a post-World-War-II frame of mind as the author described the upbringing, scholastic achievements, conversion, and courting years of each of the martyrs.
I was taken by their copious references in their diaries to their faith, and their ongoing recitation of Scripture, spiritual poems, and hymns. Other than a few preachers on Sunday morning, very few people I know talk like that today—and I live in Colorado Springs were there are nearly 200 Christian ministries headquartered!
Indeed, it was their burning desire to stand before and preach the gospel to the lost that drove Nate Saint, Jim Elliot, Pete Fleming, Roger Youderian, and Ed McCully together. And it drove them to that fateful encounter on the Rió Curaray in the South American jungle.
Not long after re-reading the book, I came across a piece by Brad Greenberg in The Wall Street Journal’s “Houses of Worship” section. Called “How Missionaries Lost Their Chariots of Fire,” it describes the significant swing in Christian missionary culture since the Eisenhower era.
Greenberg talks about how evangelistic fervor has diminished and how the emphasis in missions has changed. He suggests that missionaries used to go overseas to preach about Jesus and make converts.
“Christians today typically travel abroad to serve others, but not necessarily to spread the gospel,” he writes.
He suggests that the vast majority of them go to nations where Christianity is already known to work for social justice, and to expand their horizons or strengthen their spirituality.
In the article, David Livermore, executive director of Cornerstone University’s Global Learning Center, explains this paradigm shift: “In a postmodern context it goes against the grain to...do hard-core proselytizing. To Millennials, it really feels like al-Qaeda in Christian wineskins.”
Scott Moreau of the missions department at Wheaton College adds that two decades ago, half of his graduate students believed that building churches abroad was their leading objective. Fighting human trafficking, caring for AIDS orphans, and ending poverty are now the popular priorities. And while these are indeed very worthy concerns, the switch has evoked some to question whether the message of the cross has become secondary to serving a cause.
As I talk to people around our continent about the ministry taking place at missions and similar ministries today, I often hear things like this: “I, too, want to preach the gospel by feeding the hungry and housing the homeless.” It’s as if the very acts of hospitality are the essence of the gospel. Hospitality demonstrates the character of Christ, but without the words of Christ, the gospel is speculative rather than substantive (see Rom. 10:17).
The fact is, with society paying so much attention to the hungry, homeless, abused, and addicted…and with so many groups stepping forward to address the symptoms of sin and neglect…it’s easier than ever to marginalize the words we are called to proclaim.
Greenberg concludes his article by saying, “Spreading Christianity through deeds alone aligns with a quote attributed to St. Francis of Assisi: ‘Preach the gospel always, and if necessary, use words.’ But research suggests that non-Christians often miss the message without the words.”
Said another way, these days, people should not be expected to connect dots they may not even know exist. Fewer and fewer of the folks who go to Christian social service agencies and social justice ministries for services have any sacred history. The “old, old story” needs to be told anew. (I am not advocating that a homily must precede the hominy or vice versa; I am simply saying that in the course of your ministry, a literal message is critical, whether from the pulpit during a chapel service, across the desk in a counseling session, or on the sofa in the lounge during causal conversation.)
In a culture becoming paranoid of any proselytization, these words from the Apostle Paul to Timothy can be pretty intimidating, but they are, nevertheless, our continuing mandate: “Preach the Word! Keep your sense of urgency…Whether it is convenient or inconvenient, whether it is welcome or unwelcome, you as preacher of the Word are to show people in what way their lives are wrong. And convince them, rebuking and correcting, warning and urging and encouraging them, being unflagging and inexhaustible in patience and teaching” (2 Tim. 4:2, Amplified Bible).
We don’t have to talk like Nate Saint or Jim Elliot did—but we do have to talk.
Adapted from the book Invisible Neighbors by John Ashmen (Cross Section Publishing, 2010, 2011, 2015, 2017)
I was taken by their copious references in their diaries to their faith, and their ongoing recitation of Scripture, spiritual poems, and hymns. Other than a few preachers on Sunday morning, very few people I know talk like that today—and I live in Colorado Springs were there are nearly 200 Christian ministries headquartered!
Indeed, it was their burning desire to stand before and preach the gospel to the lost that drove Nate Saint, Jim Elliot, Pete Fleming, Roger Youderian, and Ed McCully together. And it drove them to that fateful encounter on the Rió Curaray in the South American jungle.
Not long after re-reading the book, I came across a piece by Brad Greenberg in The Wall Street Journal’s “Houses of Worship” section. Called “How Missionaries Lost Their Chariots of Fire,” it describes the significant swing in Christian missionary culture since the Eisenhower era.
Greenberg talks about how evangelistic fervor has diminished and how the emphasis in missions has changed. He suggests that missionaries used to go overseas to preach about Jesus and make converts.
“Christians today typically travel abroad to serve others, but not necessarily to spread the gospel,” he writes.
He suggests that the vast majority of them go to nations where Christianity is already known to work for social justice, and to expand their horizons or strengthen their spirituality.
In the article, David Livermore, executive director of Cornerstone University’s Global Learning Center, explains this paradigm shift: “In a postmodern context it goes against the grain to...do hard-core proselytizing. To Millennials, it really feels like al-Qaeda in Christian wineskins.”
Scott Moreau of the missions department at Wheaton College adds that two decades ago, half of his graduate students believed that building churches abroad was their leading objective. Fighting human trafficking, caring for AIDS orphans, and ending poverty are now the popular priorities. And while these are indeed very worthy concerns, the switch has evoked some to question whether the message of the cross has become secondary to serving a cause.
As I talk to people around our continent about the ministry taking place at missions and similar ministries today, I often hear things like this: “I, too, want to preach the gospel by feeding the hungry and housing the homeless.” It’s as if the very acts of hospitality are the essence of the gospel. Hospitality demonstrates the character of Christ, but without the words of Christ, the gospel is speculative rather than substantive (see Rom. 10:17).
The fact is, with society paying so much attention to the hungry, homeless, abused, and addicted…and with so many groups stepping forward to address the symptoms of sin and neglect…it’s easier than ever to marginalize the words we are called to proclaim.
Greenberg concludes his article by saying, “Spreading Christianity through deeds alone aligns with a quote attributed to St. Francis of Assisi: ‘Preach the gospel always, and if necessary, use words.’ But research suggests that non-Christians often miss the message without the words.”
Said another way, these days, people should not be expected to connect dots they may not even know exist. Fewer and fewer of the folks who go to Christian social service agencies and social justice ministries for services have any sacred history. The “old, old story” needs to be told anew. (I am not advocating that a homily must precede the hominy or vice versa; I am simply saying that in the course of your ministry, a literal message is critical, whether from the pulpit during a chapel service, across the desk in a counseling session, or on the sofa in the lounge during causal conversation.)
In a culture becoming paranoid of any proselytization, these words from the Apostle Paul to Timothy can be pretty intimidating, but they are, nevertheless, our continuing mandate: “Preach the Word! Keep your sense of urgency…Whether it is convenient or inconvenient, whether it is welcome or unwelcome, you as preacher of the Word are to show people in what way their lives are wrong. And convince them, rebuking and correcting, warning and urging and encouraging them, being unflagging and inexhaustible in patience and teaching” (2 Tim. 4:2, Amplified Bible).
We don’t have to talk like Nate Saint or Jim Elliot did—but we do have to talk.
Adapted from the book Invisible Neighbors by John Ashmen (Cross Section Publishing, 2010, 2011, 2015, 2017)
Coming to Terms
23/05/24 19:36
A few months back, I was asked in a podcast interview about the “social justice work city missions were doing.” In times gone by, I would have ignored the host’s choice of terms and answered the question by describing the emergency services, addiction recovery, and follow-up work our members were undertaking with their guests and clients. But times have changed. The term “social justice” has been kidnapped. It now wears the cloaks of many causes, some of which are held high by various religious groups, but are not necessarily aligned with principles, practices, and precepts of most f the city missions I know. I took the time on the air to make a few clarifying remarks.
I told the host that I felt social justice is outward facing. It wants to know who is to blame for the disparity — either directly, indirectly, or by association. Social justice spends just as much time seeking out villains to punish as it does seeking out victims to help. When it identifies the offenders, it goes on a crusade for retribution, which can include redistribution. Fairness in such plans is always subjective, and that brings greater division.
In my exchange with the podcast host, I suggested that the alternative to social justice is biblical justice. This looks inward. Biblical justice begs every individual to ask this question: “Am I partly to blame?” Are my attitudes rooted in sin and making the problem worse in my areas of influence, or are they making things better for everyone around me? Biblical justice mirrors the heart of David, who cried out in Psalm 139, “Search me, O God, and know my heart: try me, and know my thoughts: And see if there be any wicked way in me and lead me in the way everlasting” (King James Version).
That is the attitude that I believe needs to exist in all of us, and in particular, all organizations that do frontline ministry with the poor. To be clear, this attitude doesn’t turn a blind eye toward the obvious inequities happening nationally or internationally. It speaks to the issues when it’s appropriate, but it works on the home front first. It comes to terms with the condition of the heart.
Very few Citygate Network members were aware that Citygate Network had a Racial and Spiritual Unity Cohort that met together monthly for more than a year. Pastor Robert Loggins helps lead it. The group was made up of an equally racially mixed group of CEOs. They studied together and prayed together. They went on trips together, like to Selma, Alabama, and walked hand-in-hand over the Edmund Pettus Bridge. They had goals (one of which resulted in an additional statement in Citygate Network’s Corporate Values). But sought first to understand — understand each other and themselves.
May I be so bold as to ask: How are you doing with your coming-to-terms efforts? Don’t let talk about social justice get you off track. It’s biblical justice we need.
I told the host that I felt social justice is outward facing. It wants to know who is to blame for the disparity — either directly, indirectly, or by association. Social justice spends just as much time seeking out villains to punish as it does seeking out victims to help. When it identifies the offenders, it goes on a crusade for retribution, which can include redistribution. Fairness in such plans is always subjective, and that brings greater division.
In my exchange with the podcast host, I suggested that the alternative to social justice is biblical justice. This looks inward. Biblical justice begs every individual to ask this question: “Am I partly to blame?” Are my attitudes rooted in sin and making the problem worse in my areas of influence, or are they making things better for everyone around me? Biblical justice mirrors the heart of David, who cried out in Psalm 139, “Search me, O God, and know my heart: try me, and know my thoughts: And see if there be any wicked way in me and lead me in the way everlasting” (King James Version).
That is the attitude that I believe needs to exist in all of us, and in particular, all organizations that do frontline ministry with the poor. To be clear, this attitude doesn’t turn a blind eye toward the obvious inequities happening nationally or internationally. It speaks to the issues when it’s appropriate, but it works on the home front first. It comes to terms with the condition of the heart.
Very few Citygate Network members were aware that Citygate Network had a Racial and Spiritual Unity Cohort that met together monthly for more than a year. Pastor Robert Loggins helps lead it. The group was made up of an equally racially mixed group of CEOs. They studied together and prayed together. They went on trips together, like to Selma, Alabama, and walked hand-in-hand over the Edmund Pettus Bridge. They had goals (one of which resulted in an additional statement in Citygate Network’s Corporate Values). But sought first to understand — understand each other and themselves.
May I be so bold as to ask: How are you doing with your coming-to-terms efforts? Don’t let talk about social justice get you off track. It’s biblical justice we need.
The Power of Place
10/03/24 21:01
My grandfather never seemed to mind that the twentieth century was passing him by. He just didn’t care for conveniences. Though he did own a Model-T Ford, it was permanently parked in one of his barns, encased in decades of dust. Dewey Gillogly walked everywhere he went.
Until the day he died, Dewey drew his water from an ancient spring at the base of the hill that held his house. Some of my kinfolk back in those southeastern Ohio hollows swear it was the untreated water that killed him, but since he lived to be 92, their arguments are a lot shallower than that old spring must have been. Every morning, with pail in hand, he would bound off his back porch and head down the well-worn path to pull up enough drinking and washing water to get him through another day.
It was probably the area’s first permanent settlers who deepened the spring’s basin and lined it with slate. At some point a tin roof was purportedly raised overtop to protect the pool from falling leaves and debris. By the time Dewey came along there was standing a 10’ x 15’ cement-floored springhouse. The overhanging pitched roof covered the actual spring. Behind the wide wooden door, the water flowed through a trough in the floor, along the north wall. It was a place where melons and steel cans of raw milk were kept cool. The elevated portion of the floor was where my grandfather stored the sacks of potatoes he harvested from his fields up behind the house, or the apples he picked from the orchard in the side yard. The air inside had a dank, earthy smell, but with a strange scent of sweetness.
During my childhood, all my Ohio aunts and uncles lived in the rural regions surrounding the Gillogly homestead. Some were close enough that they could hear the report of Dewey’s shotgun echoing through the hills. I, on the other hand, was a distant relative in the literal sense of the term, growing up in ever-progressive New Jersey. But once or twice a year, my parents would head west in our Hudson Hornet for a Buckeye visit, and I would reconnect with my cousins. We’d scamper through the cornfields, get dirty in the coal shed, get wet in the creek, catch snakes in the stone foundation of the smokehouse, and look for treasures along the rails of the New York Central spur line that ran through the woods, just west of the house.
But on those warm August afternoons, when my parents and I had Grandpa and the farm to ourselves, I would eventually wander away from the grown-up discourse and find my way to the springhouse. There, I would lie on the bank and stare up into the bright green canopy of the sycamore trees that towered overhead. I’d study the twisted branches and watch squirrels leap from limb to limb. I would close my eyes and try to distinguish the calls of the cardinals from those of the robins. With my eyes still closed I would ponder life (as deeply as a nine-year old can ever ponder anything). When my imagination awoke, I would pretend that the springhouse was a garrison and I was the commander of its loyal troop, fighting off make-believe foes with sticks and stones.
When we’d visit in autumn, the sycamores would lay a golden carpet all around the springhouse. I was particularly drawn to the place at that time of year. As I got older, I would sit on the slate-topped stone wall that formed the front of the springhouse, with my back against a corner post, and read for hours on end, fully absorbed in the quiet coolness of that special setting. Looking back on my later-teen years, I’d have to say that some of my very important long-term plans were prayerfully developed in the shadows of that old shack.
That springhouse will always be a sacred place to me. For an adolescent, it was a safe haven — a place where life took a shady side road, skirting arduous arithmetic assignments, playground bullies, and the increasing business in the burgeoning Levittowns that were epitomizing East Coast life as I knew it. For a young man, walking down to that springhouse was like going to visit a trusted friend — one who provided a link to my past, but moreover, cared about my future.
Every few years, I’d get a chance to return to my Ohio roots . . . and witness how time has whittled away at the old homestead. Today, the wide swath of grass that used to be a main road ends in a thicket just beyond where the house used to stand. The rails, ties, and ballast that formed the spur line are long gone. Two of my cousins have divided up the property. The coal shed has disappeared. So have the smokehouse and the other outbuildings. Grass is the only thing that now grows on the hillsides that were once furrowed fields. But the springhouse remains. A stubborn survivor of change, it yet sits at the foot of the hill like a proud monument to the power of place. But even if it were gone, it would still be there in my mind, and I would occasionally visit it and relive the moments that I savored in its shelter.
All of us have a need for such private places in our lives — places of peace where we can go for a reprieve from routines and explore our innermost feelings — natural settings of sanctity where we can, as Christ followers, ponder the promises of Scripture and seek the heart of God.
Jesus, Himself, retreated to such private places on a reoccurring basis — probably more often than we’re even told in Scripture. After all, it was His Father who pointed out, as far back as Genesis, that rest and reflection needed to follow a marked time of toil. Whether it was to clear his mind or to get clear direction, Jesus would disengage from the demanding crowds or His conventional confines and escape to a quiet place in the open air — a garden, a mountainside, the seashore, the wilderness.
That’s exactly what Judi and I found during our multi-month Scotland escape. The indigo loch reflecting the firmament, the castle turrets beneath the rocky craigs, the sound of circling seagulls, the Kyle-bound train passing by on the opposite shore, the distinct smell of coal smoke from a dozen different chimneys: This was our backdrop for treasured memories that will increase in value as the years roll by. The power of place enriched our deep conversations on long hikes and short walks.
Where is your private place where you can temporarily let the rest of the world roll by? A Highlands village worked perfectly for us, but you don’t have to go to a distant land. Your special place can be the porch of a cabin nestled in the pines beside a placid lake, a long wooden dock on a wide lake, or even a small gazebo in a backyard garden where the noise of the neighborhood can be temporarily turned down. If you don’t have such places in your life, I strongly encourage you to find one and retreat to it as often as you can. We all need regular respites from the rush. We need a quiet place where we can make memories and engage in meaningful meditation to soothe our soul.
Until the day he died, Dewey drew his water from an ancient spring at the base of the hill that held his house. Some of my kinfolk back in those southeastern Ohio hollows swear it was the untreated water that killed him, but since he lived to be 92, their arguments are a lot shallower than that old spring must have been. Every morning, with pail in hand, he would bound off his back porch and head down the well-worn path to pull up enough drinking and washing water to get him through another day.
It was probably the area’s first permanent settlers who deepened the spring’s basin and lined it with slate. At some point a tin roof was purportedly raised overtop to protect the pool from falling leaves and debris. By the time Dewey came along there was standing a 10’ x 15’ cement-floored springhouse. The overhanging pitched roof covered the actual spring. Behind the wide wooden door, the water flowed through a trough in the floor, along the north wall. It was a place where melons and steel cans of raw milk were kept cool. The elevated portion of the floor was where my grandfather stored the sacks of potatoes he harvested from his fields up behind the house, or the apples he picked from the orchard in the side yard. The air inside had a dank, earthy smell, but with a strange scent of sweetness.
During my childhood, all my Ohio aunts and uncles lived in the rural regions surrounding the Gillogly homestead. Some were close enough that they could hear the report of Dewey’s shotgun echoing through the hills. I, on the other hand, was a distant relative in the literal sense of the term, growing up in ever-progressive New Jersey. But once or twice a year, my parents would head west in our Hudson Hornet for a Buckeye visit, and I would reconnect with my cousins. We’d scamper through the cornfields, get dirty in the coal shed, get wet in the creek, catch snakes in the stone foundation of the smokehouse, and look for treasures along the rails of the New York Central spur line that ran through the woods, just west of the house.
But on those warm August afternoons, when my parents and I had Grandpa and the farm to ourselves, I would eventually wander away from the grown-up discourse and find my way to the springhouse. There, I would lie on the bank and stare up into the bright green canopy of the sycamore trees that towered overhead. I’d study the twisted branches and watch squirrels leap from limb to limb. I would close my eyes and try to distinguish the calls of the cardinals from those of the robins. With my eyes still closed I would ponder life (as deeply as a nine-year old can ever ponder anything). When my imagination awoke, I would pretend that the springhouse was a garrison and I was the commander of its loyal troop, fighting off make-believe foes with sticks and stones.
When we’d visit in autumn, the sycamores would lay a golden carpet all around the springhouse. I was particularly drawn to the place at that time of year. As I got older, I would sit on the slate-topped stone wall that formed the front of the springhouse, with my back against a corner post, and read for hours on end, fully absorbed in the quiet coolness of that special setting. Looking back on my later-teen years, I’d have to say that some of my very important long-term plans were prayerfully developed in the shadows of that old shack.
That springhouse will always be a sacred place to me. For an adolescent, it was a safe haven — a place where life took a shady side road, skirting arduous arithmetic assignments, playground bullies, and the increasing business in the burgeoning Levittowns that were epitomizing East Coast life as I knew it. For a young man, walking down to that springhouse was like going to visit a trusted friend — one who provided a link to my past, but moreover, cared about my future.
Every few years, I’d get a chance to return to my Ohio roots . . . and witness how time has whittled away at the old homestead. Today, the wide swath of grass that used to be a main road ends in a thicket just beyond where the house used to stand. The rails, ties, and ballast that formed the spur line are long gone. Two of my cousins have divided up the property. The coal shed has disappeared. So have the smokehouse and the other outbuildings. Grass is the only thing that now grows on the hillsides that were once furrowed fields. But the springhouse remains. A stubborn survivor of change, it yet sits at the foot of the hill like a proud monument to the power of place. But even if it were gone, it would still be there in my mind, and I would occasionally visit it and relive the moments that I savored in its shelter.
All of us have a need for such private places in our lives — places of peace where we can go for a reprieve from routines and explore our innermost feelings — natural settings of sanctity where we can, as Christ followers, ponder the promises of Scripture and seek the heart of God.
Jesus, Himself, retreated to such private places on a reoccurring basis — probably more often than we’re even told in Scripture. After all, it was His Father who pointed out, as far back as Genesis, that rest and reflection needed to follow a marked time of toil. Whether it was to clear his mind or to get clear direction, Jesus would disengage from the demanding crowds or His conventional confines and escape to a quiet place in the open air — a garden, a mountainside, the seashore, the wilderness.
That’s exactly what Judi and I found during our multi-month Scotland escape. The indigo loch reflecting the firmament, the castle turrets beneath the rocky craigs, the sound of circling seagulls, the Kyle-bound train passing by on the opposite shore, the distinct smell of coal smoke from a dozen different chimneys: This was our backdrop for treasured memories that will increase in value as the years roll by. The power of place enriched our deep conversations on long hikes and short walks.
Where is your private place where you can temporarily let the rest of the world roll by? A Highlands village worked perfectly for us, but you don’t have to go to a distant land. Your special place can be the porch of a cabin nestled in the pines beside a placid lake, a long wooden dock on a wide lake, or even a small gazebo in a backyard garden where the noise of the neighborhood can be temporarily turned down. If you don’t have such places in your life, I strongly encourage you to find one and retreat to it as often as you can. We all need regular respites from the rush. We need a quiet place where we can make memories and engage in meaningful meditation to soothe our soul.
Jesus Off the Wall
23/12/23 09:43
The walls and windows of the churches of my childhood were adorned with paintings of a softhearted, submissive, and subdued Jesus: praying anxiously in a garden; cradling a lamb plucked from the flock; meekly tapping on a thick wooden door; smiling at a circle of well-behaved children; sitting down to dinner with a dozen disciples; and alas, hanging lifelessly on a cross.
I sometimes have problems reconciling the Jesus of church décor to the Jesus frequently found in Scripture—the epigrammatic one who has his finger in the face of a Pharisee, calling him a disgusting fraud and low-life snake.
These days, I seem to be drawn to the Jesus of pithy, unexpected responses and politically incorrect conduct. In Matthew Chapter 8 there are four back-to-back clips that show this Jesus.
In verse 19, a religious leader, evidently intent on learning more from this iconoclastic rabbi, says he wants to tag along.
The walls and windows Jesus: “Thank you for your interest. You’re in for some amazing insights about my father’s kingdom. Just go over there and introduce yourself to Phillip. He’ll take you under his wing and show you how we roll.”
The real Jesus: “Are you ready to rough it? We’re not staying in the best inns, you know” (The Message).
In verse 21, an unnamed student tells the teacher he wants to continue on in Jesus’ traveling classroom but needs some time off to handle his father’s funeral arrangements.
The walls and windows Jesus: “I’m so sorry for your loss, and I totally understand how you must be torn here. Listen, Thomas will give you a schedule of where we’re planning to be over the next two weeks so you can find us and join back in after your family’s affairs have been handled and you’ve had time to comfort your grieving mother. And by the way, I appreciate so much you honoring your father, as Scripture teaches. That hasn’t gone unnoticed.”
The real Jesus: “Follow me now! Let those who are dead care for their own dead” (Living Bible).
In verses 23–27, Jesus and his crew set sail east, across the Sea of Galilee. By mid-course, the captain is asleep; everyone else, however, is awake and wide-eyed as waves from a sudden storm rhythmically break into the boat. Desperately seeking security, they rouse him.
The walls and windows Jesus: “Wow. This is quite the squall. I can’t believe I slept through this. Hold on tight until I can get a handle on the situation. And guys, don’t feel badly for being panicked. It’s a normal human reaction—and more so for the three of you who can’t swim!”
The real Jesus: “Please! What are you so afraid of, you of little faith” (The Voice)?
The last of the four vignettes is found in verses 28–34. Jesus and his followers are now ashore, trekking into territory originally belonging to the tribe of Manasseh, but now inhabited primarily by Gentiles.
Soon they come upon two demon-possessed men who are striking terror into the hearts of the locals, causing them to skirt the crypts these hellions are calling home. But when Jesus shows up, the tables are turned; the beasts from beyond are the ones who are terrified. Jesus honors their request for new hosts: He casts them out of the humans and into a nearby herd of swine. To everyone’s astonishment, pigs fly—over the cliff and into the sea where they all drown!
There certainly is no walls and windows Jesus in this story. The innocent pig farmers lose their livelihood. The animal rights activists (no doubt) pitch a fit. The townsfolk, who apparently prefer peaceful pigs to an impressive prophet, give Jesus and his boys the boot for such socially irresponsible behavior. So, off they trot, back to Nazareth to offend some more Pharisees.
What are we to make of this Jesus whose words and actions regularly tempered the hubris of the sanctimonious and left onlookers aghast? Did Jesus really have an abrasive side—this Jesus who knew that a soft answer could turn away wrath; who sat on a hillside and taught others that words matter, and that if you thoughtlessly used insulting words you could find yourself on the brink of hellfire; who said in the same setting that we should treat others just like we want to be treated?
Yes, I believe he quite often was Jesus off the wall, somewhat sardonic; but let me point out a couple of things. First, he was never cruel or callous, just provocative and penetrating. And if that Jesus makes you feel a bit uncomfortable, you are not alone. There are a lot of folks who favor a kind and gentle guardian over a Lord, mighty in battle. Personally, I think it is because over the course of the last several decades in North America we have increasingly emphasized niceness over frankness, hoping to make Jesus more appealing to unbelievers. But I think such efforts have only caused believers to revere and fear him less.
Second, if you read the red letters, you will see that Jesus did frequently use acerbic words, but they were reserved for those who should have known better—the religious leaders, the teachers of the law, and his disciples. And what he told them was intended to get their attention—to cut through the cords of incredulity and confusion that bound their hearts and minds. Jesus also didn’t hesitate to appropriate his creation (e.g., the pigs, the fig tree, etc.) on occasion to make a powerful point.
But to the poor and powerless and those farthest from the fold, Jesus spoke and demonstrated total grace, mercy, and compassion. I hope you are as frustrated as I am that there are far too many Christians today who don’t make that same differentiation. Comments to and about certain people outside of the faith are just as harsh and condemning as the words they lay on brothers and sisters in Christ who don’t line up with their orthodoxy. I’m sure Jesus has a few choice words he’d like to drop on them.
In your leadership role, never be cruel or callous. Know your various audiences. Speak the truth in love. But don’t hesitate to be firm and forthright when it’s appropriate. And don’t let your Spirit-directed remarks be held for the ransom of an apology that isn’t warranted. It annoys me to no end how someone will employ social media to implore the masses to be outraged enough to shower an opponent with shame and get him or her to cough up a mea culpa. Victory is then declared. If Jesus’ three-year ministry were taking place today, the Twittersphere would be melting down with demands for apologies coming from every sector of society. He would be “crucified” on the Internet long before being crucified on a cross.
In closing, know that it’s okay to be comforted by the calm Jesus depicted in the paintings on the wall in the narthex of your church. But know that you can also seek solace in the Jesus who is off the wall and outside the frame—the one who casts aside niceties, when needed, to make a prodigious point. This is the Jesus who can grab your attention and keep you veracious and ambitious.
I often hear people utter that clichéd question: “What would Jesus do?” My mind immediately goes to a poster I once saw. It suggests that overturning tables and chasing people with a whip is within the realm of possibilities. Perhaps that’s a picture that should be on the wall behind the pulpit in our churches these days.
I sometimes have problems reconciling the Jesus of church décor to the Jesus frequently found in Scripture—the epigrammatic one who has his finger in the face of a Pharisee, calling him a disgusting fraud and low-life snake.
These days, I seem to be drawn to the Jesus of pithy, unexpected responses and politically incorrect conduct. In Matthew Chapter 8 there are four back-to-back clips that show this Jesus.
In verse 19, a religious leader, evidently intent on learning more from this iconoclastic rabbi, says he wants to tag along.
The walls and windows Jesus: “Thank you for your interest. You’re in for some amazing insights about my father’s kingdom. Just go over there and introduce yourself to Phillip. He’ll take you under his wing and show you how we roll.”
The real Jesus: “Are you ready to rough it? We’re not staying in the best inns, you know” (The Message).
In verse 21, an unnamed student tells the teacher he wants to continue on in Jesus’ traveling classroom but needs some time off to handle his father’s funeral arrangements.
The walls and windows Jesus: “I’m so sorry for your loss, and I totally understand how you must be torn here. Listen, Thomas will give you a schedule of where we’re planning to be over the next two weeks so you can find us and join back in after your family’s affairs have been handled and you’ve had time to comfort your grieving mother. And by the way, I appreciate so much you honoring your father, as Scripture teaches. That hasn’t gone unnoticed.”
The real Jesus: “Follow me now! Let those who are dead care for their own dead” (Living Bible).
In verses 23–27, Jesus and his crew set sail east, across the Sea of Galilee. By mid-course, the captain is asleep; everyone else, however, is awake and wide-eyed as waves from a sudden storm rhythmically break into the boat. Desperately seeking security, they rouse him.
The walls and windows Jesus: “Wow. This is quite the squall. I can’t believe I slept through this. Hold on tight until I can get a handle on the situation. And guys, don’t feel badly for being panicked. It’s a normal human reaction—and more so for the three of you who can’t swim!”
The real Jesus: “Please! What are you so afraid of, you of little faith” (The Voice)?
The last of the four vignettes is found in verses 28–34. Jesus and his followers are now ashore, trekking into territory originally belonging to the tribe of Manasseh, but now inhabited primarily by Gentiles.
Soon they come upon two demon-possessed men who are striking terror into the hearts of the locals, causing them to skirt the crypts these hellions are calling home. But when Jesus shows up, the tables are turned; the beasts from beyond are the ones who are terrified. Jesus honors their request for new hosts: He casts them out of the humans and into a nearby herd of swine. To everyone’s astonishment, pigs fly—over the cliff and into the sea where they all drown!
There certainly is no walls and windows Jesus in this story. The innocent pig farmers lose their livelihood. The animal rights activists (no doubt) pitch a fit. The townsfolk, who apparently prefer peaceful pigs to an impressive prophet, give Jesus and his boys the boot for such socially irresponsible behavior. So, off they trot, back to Nazareth to offend some more Pharisees.
What are we to make of this Jesus whose words and actions regularly tempered the hubris of the sanctimonious and left onlookers aghast? Did Jesus really have an abrasive side—this Jesus who knew that a soft answer could turn away wrath; who sat on a hillside and taught others that words matter, and that if you thoughtlessly used insulting words you could find yourself on the brink of hellfire; who said in the same setting that we should treat others just like we want to be treated?
Yes, I believe he quite often was Jesus off the wall, somewhat sardonic; but let me point out a couple of things. First, he was never cruel or callous, just provocative and penetrating. And if that Jesus makes you feel a bit uncomfortable, you are not alone. There are a lot of folks who favor a kind and gentle guardian over a Lord, mighty in battle. Personally, I think it is because over the course of the last several decades in North America we have increasingly emphasized niceness over frankness, hoping to make Jesus more appealing to unbelievers. But I think such efforts have only caused believers to revere and fear him less.
Second, if you read the red letters, you will see that Jesus did frequently use acerbic words, but they were reserved for those who should have known better—the religious leaders, the teachers of the law, and his disciples. And what he told them was intended to get their attention—to cut through the cords of incredulity and confusion that bound their hearts and minds. Jesus also didn’t hesitate to appropriate his creation (e.g., the pigs, the fig tree, etc.) on occasion to make a powerful point.
But to the poor and powerless and those farthest from the fold, Jesus spoke and demonstrated total grace, mercy, and compassion. I hope you are as frustrated as I am that there are far too many Christians today who don’t make that same differentiation. Comments to and about certain people outside of the faith are just as harsh and condemning as the words they lay on brothers and sisters in Christ who don’t line up with their orthodoxy. I’m sure Jesus has a few choice words he’d like to drop on them.
In your leadership role, never be cruel or callous. Know your various audiences. Speak the truth in love. But don’t hesitate to be firm and forthright when it’s appropriate. And don’t let your Spirit-directed remarks be held for the ransom of an apology that isn’t warranted. It annoys me to no end how someone will employ social media to implore the masses to be outraged enough to shower an opponent with shame and get him or her to cough up a mea culpa. Victory is then declared. If Jesus’ three-year ministry were taking place today, the Twittersphere would be melting down with demands for apologies coming from every sector of society. He would be “crucified” on the Internet long before being crucified on a cross.
In closing, know that it’s okay to be comforted by the calm Jesus depicted in the paintings on the wall in the narthex of your church. But know that you can also seek solace in the Jesus who is off the wall and outside the frame—the one who casts aside niceties, when needed, to make a prodigious point. This is the Jesus who can grab your attention and keep you veracious and ambitious.
I often hear people utter that clichéd question: “What would Jesus do?” My mind immediately goes to a poster I once saw. It suggests that overturning tables and chasing people with a whip is within the realm of possibilities. Perhaps that’s a picture that should be on the wall behind the pulpit in our churches these days.
