A Twofold Death and Resurrection (Jn. 11:25-26)

I am the resurrection and the life; they who believe in me, though they die, yet shall they live, and whoever lives and believes in me shall never die" (John 11:25-26) . The church clings to these words like few other sayings of Jesus. The scene of Jesus with two grieving sisters, weeping at the grave of their brother and his friend, has offered comfort and hope unmatched by any other resource, biblical or nonbiblical. Most Christian funerals allude to these words or this scene.

However, sometimes the popular appropriation of a text inhibits further exploration for richer and deeper meanings. One is hesitant to remove an old chapel even if it is for the purpose of erecting a larger and more accommodating sanctuary. Even so, a few comments will not diminish the blessing of this text to those who have clung to it in an hour of death.

John’s account of the raising of Lazarus (John alone reports it) is one of several sign stories in this Gospel. A sign story consists of a miraculous act of Jesus usually surrounded or followed by a theological discussion of its meaning. Such is John’s presentation of Jesus turning water to wine, healing a cripple at the pool, feeding the multitudes, giving sight to a man born blind and raising Lazarus. At least two features mark sign stories. First, Jesus acts according to his own time and not according to external pressures. For example, Jesus separates himself from his mother (2:4) before acting at the wedding feast at Cana. The reader should not, then, be disturbed by Jesus’ response to the urgent message about Lazarus’s illness (11:3-6) : Jesus stayed two days longer where he was. In this Gospel, Jesus’ actions are "from above." Second, to say this is a sign story is to say that its primary function is revelation. Some truth about the meaning of God’s glory and presence in the world is made known through Jesus’ ministry. For the stories to function this way, they must be seen to operate on two levels. On one level Jesus heals a cripple, opens the eyes of the blind or raises the dead, but on another level he reveals a truth about life eternal which God makes available in Jesus Christ.

The story of the raising of Lazarus is prefaced by a statement of its purpose: it is not only for the glory of God but "that the Son of God may be glorified by means of it" (V. 4) . This is to say, the raising of Lazarus will effect the Son’s return to God by means of his death and resurrection. The reader, therefore, is alerted to what the characters in the drama do not know; that is, what is really going on here is not only a family crisis in Bethany but the crisis of the world, not only the raising of a dead man but the giving of life to the world. On one level the story is about the death and resurrection of Lazarus, but on another it is about the death and resurrection of Jesus. The sisters want their brother back, to be sure, but Jesus is also acting to give life to the world.. Jesus declares this truth to Martha at the heart of the narrative: "I am the resurrection and the life."

With these two meanings in mind, the passion of Jesus bleeds through the surface of the story. Jesus was "deeply moved in spirit and troubled" (v. 33) , he was "deeply moved again" (v. 38) , and he wept (v. 35) . Why? He had deliberately delayed coming until Lazarus was dead and buried. The crowd said, "See how he loved him!" (v. 36) , but in this Gospel they never understand what is really going on. Jesus is experiencing something like a Gethsemane, for he knows that calling Lazarus out of the tomb means that he must enter it. The narrative will shortly make that fact abundantly clear: the belief in Jesus generated by his raising Lazarus prompts the religious leaders to plot Jesus’ death (vv. 45-53) . But for Jesus there is no other way because only in this act can he be the resurrection and the life for the world. And so the reader sees in and through the Lazarus story the Jesus story. Notice: Jesus is troubled and weeping; the tomb is not far from Jerusalem; the tomb is a cave with a large stone covering the opening; the stone is rolled away; Jesus cries with a loud voice; the grave cloth is left at the tomb. Sound familiar?

Let there be no misunderstanding: Martha, Mary and Lazarus are not simply props for a spiritual story. They are real people trapped in death and grief, and Jesus brings comfort and life. Jesus was a real human being ministering among the suffering. But John wants us to understand that God’s blessing did not come solely to certain people who happened to be in that place at that time. There was not simply one spot called Camelot where cripples were healed, the blind could see and the dead were raised. It is not the case that subsequent generations in other times and places would have to be satisfied with the thin diet of reading and recalling the wonderful days when Jesus was here and said, "I am the resurrection and the life; anyone who believes . . ." Although we were not there, Jesus also said, "Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe" (20:29) . Faith is always first generation, with an immediacy about it that does not distinguish between our being there and his being here.

Two Arenas for Faithfulness (Matthew 5:13-20)

The Casual Reader of Matthew 5:13-20 will be struck by the apparent disjunctures both between the passage and its context and within the passage itself. The Beatitudes conclude at verse 12 and Jesus immediately addresses his followers as the "salt of the earth" and "the light of the world." These images are radically different, but not so different as the very next line: "Do not think that I came to destroy the law or the prophets: I came not to destroy but to fulfill." Granted, the Sermon on the Mount is most likely a composite of teachings given on different occasions, but even composites have a uniting center or a discernible movement. Is such unity totally absent here?

The careful reader will notice that the Beatitudes are in the third person, generic and impersonal like proverbs, until verse 11, at which point Jesus says, "Blessed are you." Although verse 10 has already blessed those persecuted for the cause of righteousness, verse 11 applies to situations of reproach, persecution and false accusations, "for my sake." This Beatitude is now not only personal in its address, but it identifies the blessed as followers of Jesus. Furthermore, Jesus has introduced two categories that call for elaboration: a persecuting world out there and the tradition of the suffering prophets. In other words, Jesus sets his disciples in two contexts, both of which are essential arenas in which they are to live out their faithfulness: the world in general and the community of God’s people.

For the first context, Jesus offers affirmation, warning and instruction. The affirmation is in two vivid images, "You are the salt of the earth" and "You are the light of the world." Notice "You are" not "You ought to be or should try to be." Both salt and light are so basic and essential to human life that Jesus felt no need to spell out what this meant. However, having introduced the existence of hostility toward the gospel, Jesus does elaborate on what can happen to God’s people under persecution and sustained opposition. Salt can lose its integrity, its identifying quality as salt. This does not occur suddenly, of course, but so gradually that those to whom it happens do not perceive themselves as changing and cannot identify later a single time or place when their faith ceased. Certainly the loss was not intentional; it was more a matter of drifting away, or like the case of Samson who rose from sleep to go out against the Philistines not realizing that in the night he had been shorn of God’s strength.

Or, says Jesus, how easy it is to lose initiative in mission and take up a posture of protection and defense after one suffers verbal, physical, social or economic abuse for one’s faith. For example, building a city on a hill is sound strategy for self-defense, but the increased visibility attracts even more hostility. Or again, putting a lamp under a bushel certainly reduces the chance of having it blown out, but the price for such protection is darkness. In other words, the way of Christ is mission: witnessing and benevolent intrusion into the life of the world. There is no way that Christ’s cause can be converted into an individual or community lifestyle of self-interest, self-protection and defense against vulnerability. To do so is not to interpret Christ differently, but to abandon him. The way of Christ is to take the initiative and rather than hide from the world, let the light shine in the hopeful trust that the praise of God will be increased.

As for the second context, the tradition of faith. Jesus calls for continuity and fulfillment. Continuity with Judaism is introduced not as a doctrinal matter but as an experience: you are one with God’s prophets who suffered before you. The very first mention of union between Christianity and Judaism, church and synagogue, is on the issue of receiving the common blow, hearing the common slander, facing the common false witness, feeling the common sword. That Jesus would mention this first as the thread of continuity between the two communities means at least that common suffering for the way of God in the world should season all conversations between the two communities on matters institutional and theological.

It is only at this point that Jesus announces that his own ministry is not separate from the testimony of the Hebrew Scriptures. We do not know if Matthew’s church was having a problem in this regard. We do know that some in the early church were persuaded that Moses and the prophets should be left intact and Jesus added on, while others were equally adamant about cutting free from the tradition altogether. Working in and with the continuities and discontinuities of tradition is a difficult matter. In a community’s infancy, tradition provides life and nurture, identity and stability; in adolescence, strong voices say that identity can be realized only by rejecting tradition. However, as a community matures it exercises more discrimination. A blanket rejection of the past does not say something about Judaism so much as it does about one’s view of God. On the other hand, to cling uncritically to the past is to purchase security at the price of denying that God is a living God, continually doing new things among us,

Jesus stood within his own heritage but was not blind to its distortions and falsifications. So it was that he often appealed to the tradition to admonish interpretations of it that violated its intent and spirit. His mission, he said, was not one of abolition but of completion, and those who follow him are to manifest such a mission in their behavior and relationships. Anyone who appeals to faith and freedom in Christ to do less, be less, give less, serve less and love less than our forebears has grossly misunderstood Jesus’ message.

 

Testing That Never Ceases (Matt.4:1-2; 4:3-11; Gen. 3:5; Deut. 8:2; Deut. 34:1-8; Deut. 18:18)

Still wet from his baptism in the Jordan, "Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil. And he fasted 40 days and 40 nights, and afterward he was hungry" (Matt. 4:1-2) . With these words Matthew addresses those who gather for the first Sunday of Lent. What Matthew proceeds to tell us about Jesus’ wilderness tests (4:3-11) is a multilayered story. At the deepest level lies the story of Adam and Eve and the serpent’s proposal that they become like God (Gen. 3:5) . Next are the accounts of Israel’s 40 years of wandering and being tested in the wilderness (Deut. 8:2) . Even closer to the experience of Jesus is that of Moses who was with the Lord for 40 days and nights during which time he neither ate nor drank but was taken to a high mountain and shown all the land as far as the eye could see (Deut. 34:1-8) . Matthew tells the story of Jesus’ desert struggles to highlight his relationship to our forebears in Eden, the history of Israel, and the prophecy that God would raise up among the people one like Moses (Deut. 18:18) .

The impact of the story, however, lies not in its echoes of earlier biblical records. Most readers don’t need commentaries to resonate with what is going on in the life of Jesus. Nor is the story preserved to satisfy the historical curiosity of those who might wonder what happened to Jesus immediately after his baptism. Rather, the account directly spoke and speaks to a church whose own faithfulness is forged again and again in the desert. Notice: Jesus is not tempted because he has departed from God’s will. Jesus is in the desert because he was led by the spirit. Take a poll among the churches: it’s usually the obedient and not the disobedient who are struggling, being opposed and tested. The disobedient seem to have a knack for locating the cushions.

Second, temptation indicates strength, not weakness. One is tempted only to do that which lies within one’s capacity. The greater one’s capacities, the greater one’s temptations. The fierceness of Jesus’ desert struggle is testimony to his power.

Third, temptation does not usually involve an obvious or undisguised evil. We first convince ourselves that an endeavor is reasonable and promises good results before we put our mind and hand to it. The scene before us is not a cartoon of Jesus debating some horned creature with a fiendish face who smells of sulfur. Jesus is wrestling with the will of God for the ministry now before him and is presented with three avenues. All three have immense possibilities for good. Recall the lure to Adam and Eve:

"You will be like God." Could any goal be loftier? There is no hint of sin or shame. So Jesus has before him three excellent offers: Turn stones to bread. In a world of unbelievable hunger, why not? Leap from the pinnacle of the temple. In a world callous to sermon and lesson, why not a coercive shock into belief? Enter the political arena. In a world of slavery, war, oppression and disregard for life and rights, why not?

Fourth, Matthew presents temptation not as a private morality game but as a contest about the shape and nature of ministry. Jesus will soon preach good news to the poor and release to captives, relieve the bruised, cleanse lepers, and heal the blind and crippled. Of course, he will be opposed immediately. Forces that traffic in human misery and reap huge profits from the poverty of others will try any means to turn him from such a ministry. The world hardly has changed. Every church engaged in the ministry of Jesus knows painfully well that there is another team on the field and it is often surprising and disappointing to learn who their members are. Of course, churches that do not extend themselves in addressing human need seldom if ever face opposition.

Jesus survives the test in the desert and moves into ministry in Galilee. And how so? Not simply by quoting Scripture (Deut. 6:13; 6:16; 8:3) , although the Scriptures were for him an enormous source of strength. The sword of the spirit is the Word of God (Eph. 6:17) . Neither was Jesus’ victory in the desert achieved by denouncing the tempting offers. On the contrary, in the course of his ministry he did feed the poor, he did perform wonders among the people, his ministry did have and continues to have enormous political impact. Rather, Jesus’ response to every test was to refuse to try to be like God or to be God. As Paul put it, he "did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, taking the form of a servant" (Phil. 2:6-7) . He did not use the power of the spirit to claim exemption or to avoid the painful difficulties of the path of service. He did not use God to claim something for himself. And it was this serving, suffering, dying Jesus whom God vindicated by raising him from the dead. A church too fond of power, place and claims would do well to walk in his steps.

Jesus’ temptations did not end in the desert. Again and again he was tested. "Avoid the cross," said his close and well-meaning friend Simon. And, of course, there was Gethsemane. With the church, the story is the same; testing never ceases. This is why we gather frequently and pray: Our Father in heaven, let your name be hallowed. Your will be done. Give us bread for today. Lead us not into temptation. Deliver us from the evil one.

Hearing God’s Blessing (Matt. 5:1-12)

The Beatitudes (Matt. 5:1-12) begin the body of material commonly referred to as the Sermon on the Mount (Matt. 5-7) , the first of five major sections of teachings within the Gospel of Matthew. Carefully structured, all five conclude with the formula "And when Jesus had finished all these sayings.

It may or may not be the case that Matthew used the five books of Moses as a model. Neither is it important to defend or oppose the term "sermon," traditionally attached to this material. To insist that Jesus delivered all these sayings at one sitting is equally unimportant. In fact, the variety of subjects treated and the fact that Mark and Luke use some of these sayings in other contexts argue rather persuasively against a single audience and a single occasion. But none of these positions rob the material of its meaning or authority.

It is important, however, to ponder the nature of Jesus’ original audience because audience is integral to understanding a speaker’s meaning. Did Jesus speak to the crowds or to his smaller circle of followers? In 4:25 Matthew describes great crowds following Jesus and in 5:11 says, "Seeing the crowds, he went up on the mountain." At the close of the sermon, "the crowds were astonished at his teaching" (7:28) . However, 5:1-2, which reads "when he sat down his disciples came to him. And he opened his mouth and taught them," clearly makes his disciples the audience. The content of the sermon seems to assume a commitment to life under the reign of God; it would be difficult to argue that Jesus’ teachings were or are for the general public, to be implemented in the larger arena of civic and social networks. Jesus is addressing his followers. But it seems that the disciples are being instructed in the context of a larger audience. The presence of the multitudes keeps the disciples honest as to who they are and what price is to be paid for their commitments. The crowds serve also to remind the reader that the invitation to join the circle of disciples is always open provided we are willing to submit to the discipline of God’s reign. After all, the church is a community, not a ghetto, and it is always open to and aware of the world.

Even more important for understanding Matthew 5:1-12 is an understanding of what a beatitude is. A beatitude is a blessing or announcement of God’s favor. Of the 44 in the New Testament, the vast majority occur in Matthew and Luke. In the Old Testament, most of the beatitudes occur in Psalms and in Wisdom literature. In the context of proverbs or other wisdom sayings, beatitudes can be translated "Happy are those who" or "How fortunate are those who." However, it is more appropriate to translate Jesus’ words so as to convey God’s favorable behavior toward those addressed. Hence, "blessed" or "favored of God are those who" conveys the understanding that such favor is both present and future. The language of a blessing is also performative; the pronouncement of blessing actually conveys the blessing. Certainly the language is not hortatory: "We ought to be poor in spirit" or "Let us be meek" or "We must hunger and thirst for righteousness." Preachers are too easily tempted to urge, push and exhort us to implement these qualities. Such exhortations reflect frustration before the grace of God. It is more difficult to hear and receive a blessing than to attempt to achieve one.

Very important, then, is the recognition that the beatitudes appear at the beginning of the Sermon on the Mount, before a single instruction is given, before there has been time for obedience or disobedience. If the blessings were only for the deserving, very likely they would be stated at the end of the sermon, probably prefaced with the conditional clause, "If you have done all these things." But appearing at the beginning, they say that God’s favor precedes all our endeavors. In fact, all our efforts at kingdom living are in response to divine grace, motivated by "because of," not "in order to." In this regard, the Sermon on the Mount begins as the Decalogue begins, with a statement of God’s gracious initiative: "I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the land of bondage" (Exod. 20:2) . Some Christian characterizations of Judaism forget the words of grace in the Old Testament. In fact, some Christians are so anxious to rush to the Sermon on the Mount’s moral and ethical instructions that they overlook the initial word that God’s blessing is the context for all our behavior and relationships.

Finally, and most important to the reader of Matthew 5:1-12. God’s favor is granted to those whom society regards as the ones left behind: the poor in spirit, the meek, the mourners, the merciful, those hungering for justice, the purehearted, the makers of peace, those mistreated for the cause of justice. On these Jesus pronounces God’s congratulations, with these God identifies in Jesus, to these comes the Good News of God’s interceding grace. What a reversal of values and fortunes! Many of these are victims, to be sure, but the beatitudes deliver them from a victim mentality. Just as there is a difference between being a servant and being servile, so there is a difference between being victimized and regarding oneself as a victim. Those who in the face of violence, oppression, abuse and neglect continue to turn the other cheek, go the second mile and share possessions even with accusers are not really victims. They are in a very real and profound sense victors, set free to live by hearing Jesus extend to them the beatitude of God.

Coping in Jesus’ Absence (Jn. 9:1-41)

The form of a passage is often as instructive as its subject matter. So it is with John 9:1-41, the story of Jesus healing a man born blind. The text is pregnant with matters of major importance: the disciples ask about the relationship of suffering to sin. Jesus acts on his own initiative and not in response to the blind man’s faith. The man’s faith follows rather than precedes healing. We learn that the blind see and the seeing are blind -- no small matter both for life and theology. In addition we read two major christological pronouncements in the passage: "As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world" (v. 5) , and "For judgment I came into this world, that those who do not see may see, and that those who see may become blind" (v. 39) . These and other offerings of this extraordinary text could occupy us at length and with great profit.

However, this story is in one respect unique not only in John but in all the Gospels. John 9:1-41 consists of a sign action by Jesus followed by a series of dramatic actions growing out of Jesus’ action. Jesus himself appears only at the beginning (vv. l-7a) and at the end (vv. 34-41) . In other words, Jesus heals the man, disappears from the narrative and reappears at the end to receive, confirm and vindicate the blind man now healed and a disciple. Most of the action occurs between Jesus’ two arrivals. It is difficult to believe it is coincidental that the form of the narrative corresponds to the form of the story of the church: Jesus comes with blessing and instruction, Jesus departs, Jesus will return with vindication for his church. The church is now living in the time of Jesus’ departure, the period between his first and his final manifestations. This Gospel is very sensitive to Jesus’ absence and responds with that most encouraging body of material between the Last Supper (John 13) and the arrest in the garden (John 18) . This "farewell" section is clearly designed to instruct and encourage the church "in the meantime." The story in chapter 9 reflects the same sensitivity to the life of the church between "a little while and you will not see me" and "a little while and you will see me."

The time of Jesus’ absence is no picnic. In fact, the man born blind could have said understandably to himself more than once, "I never asked to be healed. If this is what it means to be blessed of God, I think I am willing to relinquish some divine favors." Perhaps no biblical story illustrates quite so dramatically the truth of repeated experience: God’s favor more often leads into than away from difficulties. A relationship to God does not remove one from but often places one in the line of fire. Those who preach faith as the cessation of pain, suffering, poverty, restless nights and turbulent days are offering false comfort. Notice what happened to the healed man during Jesus’ absence.

The drama of what can happen to those blessed by Jesus unfolds in four scenes. In scene one (vv. 8-12) , the healed man tries to go home again but cannot. So radical is the change in him that his reappearance in the old neighborhood generates no joy, no celebration, no welcome home, only questions and doubts. His insistence that he is the same man gains mixed responses. He was formerly well known among these people; his stumbling and hesitant walk, his dependence, his poverty were his identity, they defined his place in the community. Now he walks upright, assured of place and direction, quite independent, only to discover that he has no place anymore. Who are you? Who is this Jesus? Where is he? I do not know.

In scene two (vv. 13-17) the healed man is hauled before religious leaders. They are interested in all reported miracles, especially if performed by unauthorized individuals and most especially if done in violation of some law. Such is the case here; the healing occurred on the sabbath. A quandary: if this man is truly healed, it was done by someone with the power of God, but if the healing took place on the sabbath, then it was done by someone opposing God’s law. Are you sure you can see? Were you really blind? Who did it? Further investigation is needed.

Scene three (vv. 18-23) finds the parents of the healed man being grilled by the religious leaders. Yes, he is our son; yes, he was born blind; no, we do not know what happened; no, we do not know who did it. Whatever joy they may have had is drowned in fear. Expulsion from the synagogue and social disgrace is a high price to pay for having a son especially blessed by God. They were unwilling to pay it.

In the final scene (vv. 24-34) the man is grilled a second time and more intensely. The authorities, faced with the irrefutable evidence of the healing, try to make the man denounce Jesus as a sinner. The poor man, armed only with his experience and sound logic, cannot believe a sinner could have the power of God. Anger and frustration rule: the man is denounced along with Jesus and expelled as a sinner. A few days previous the man’s life was blessed by Jesus and now his old friends disregard him, his parents reject him, and he is no longer welcome at his old place of worship. What a blessing! Jesus returns (v. 35) , late, but not too late.

Christ is Not as We Are (Matt. 17:1-9)

Matthew’s account of the transfiguration of Jesus (17:1-9) ushers in Ash Wednesday, the sobering beginning of Lent. This magnificent text also concludes the celebrations of Epiphany, the manifestation of the divine on earth. During Epiphany, the whisper in Bethlehem becomes a shout heard round the world and no Gospel makes the announcement more clearly than Matthew. This is not to imply that the transfiguration story is not read every year on the last Sunday after Epiphany or that Mark and Luke do not contain the account. Rather it is to say that Matthew is, of all the Gospels, most congenial to Epiphany.

There are several reasons: First, Matthew provides the only account of the visit of the magi (2:1-12) , the scriptural centerpiece for Epiphany, the feast following the 12 days of Christmas. Second, the posture of praise especially appropriate at this time is nourished uniquely by Matthew who, unlike the other Evangelists (with the exception of John in 9:38) , portrays Jesus being worshipped. Third, at Jesus’ baptism, one account of which is always read the first Sunday after Epiphany, Matthew says that the voice from heaven spoke publicly (not privately to Jesus as in Mark and Luke) , "This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased."

But finally, only Matthew records three epiphanies, or more correctly Christophanies, in which the living and glorified Christ comes to his followers. (There are countless occasions when others come to Jesus, but in these three texts Jesus comes to his disciples.) One Christophany occurs following the resurrection, on a mountain in Galilee. "And when they saw him they worshipped him; but some doubted. And Jesus came to them" (28:17-18) . Another such occurrence is on the sea of Galilee, in the fourth watch of the night, during a storm. In a time of fear and faith, doubt and worship, the disciples wonder whether they are seeing a ghost, as Jesus "came to them, walking on the sea" (14:25) . The other such appearance is recorded in today’s text. Peter, James and John see a dazzlingly transfigured Jesus talking with Moses and Elijah and they hear heaven’s voice declare Jesus the Son of God to be heard and obeyed. While they lie prostrate with fear and awe, "Jesus came and touched them."

To join the transfiguration story to the other two Christophanies is not at all to minimize the importance of studying Matthew 17:1-9 by itself. In fact, those who understand it will see the event in its present context immediately following the first prediction of the passion and Peter’s confession of that which never comes by observation of flesh and blood but only by revelation (16:17) . The voice from heaven declaring who Jesus really is recalls the account of Jesus’ baptism (3:16-17) and heaven’s earlier announcement, which also came immediately after Jesus had submitted himself in full obedience. In the details of the transfiguration one finds echoes of theophanies in Exodus. And the careful reader will not miss the presence of Moses and Elijah who confirm the witness of the law and the prophets to Jesus Christ.

Even so, looking at the transfiguration in conjunction with other Christophanies reminds us that such texts speak uniquely of Jesus Christ in ways that evoke from the church awe, fear and worship. When we understand that, we will be more hesitant about squeezing some relevant exhortation from the story, drawing hasty comparisons to current events, or finding analogies within our own experiences. While interpretation should bridge the distance between the biblical texts and ourselves, it should not facilely collapse that distance, drawing parallels that are not parallel, thereby reducing and even trivializing a grand text. This warning is most appropriate for christological texts. To be sure, the Word became flesh, identified with us, was tempted in every way as we are, knew the common human condition of suffering and death, and in that identification provided us with not only an example but an intercessor who understands our infirmities. But not all Christology fits the contours of our lives, not all Christology can be consumed without remainder in moral examples and ethical preachments. While Christ is as we are, and therefore will help, Matthew’s Christophanies remind us that he is not as we are, and therefore can help.

There is value in referring to this story as one about Jesus’ mountaintop experience, which is followed by his return to the valley where he ministered to human need. To such a presentation we can add recitations of mountaintop experiences we have known, followed by exhortations to return to the valley ready to serve. The connections can not only be clear but also encouraging and challenging. However, large pieces of the text remain intact, containing affirmations not about us but about Christ alone. But this, too, is edifying: to stand before a text full of dazzling light, hovering clouds and a heavenly voice, a text that we cannot explain fully or consume homiletically, a text that is simply there night and day, offering disturbing consolation, a text before which we live out our faith in awe and praise.

Proclaiming Jubilee–For Whom?

Jubilee 2000 is gaining momentum. Centers for the movement have arisen in more than 40 countries, and numerous churches and nongovernmental organizations have signed on to the campaign. The goals of this movement, which seems to have originated with the All Africa Conference of Churches and is now centered in the United Kingdom, are best summed up in the apostolic letter issued by Pope John Paul II in 1994. It states: "In the spirit of the Book of Leviticus (25:8-12), Christians will have to raise their voice on behalf of all the poor of the world, proposing the Jubilee as an appropriate time to give thought, among other things, to reducing substantially, if not canceling outright, the international debt which seriously threatens the future of many nations."

The idea is appealing. After all, there is no such thing as an international bankruptcy court which allows hopelessly indebted countries to declare themselves insolvent. Countries that have no hope of ever paying off their debt languish in a state of perpetual penury. The people of these countries barely eke out a living, while the banks owned by the wealthy prosper.

The world's financial institutions have recognized that something needs to be done to change this situation. The International Monetary Fund (IMF) recently started the Heavily Indebted Poor Country (HIPC) initiative, which singles out countries undergoing extreme financial stress. On the list are many African nations, including Rwanda, Burundi, Kenya and the Democratic Republic of Congo. Each country must pass a second screening to be eligible to receive some debt relief.

The Jubilee 2000 people claim that the relief proposed by the IMF is not enough. It does indeed seem to fall far short of what is needed. However, the concept proposed by Jubilee 2000 is riddled with pitfalls; to apply it universally would be naïve.

The economies of the heavily indebted countries would clearly benefit from debt relief. In countries with benevolent governments, the citizenry on the whole would gain. However, the socioeconomic structure of some of the heavily indebted nations is such that, in the long term, debt relief might only aggravate the condition of the poor.

As a former agricultural missionary in east and central Africa, I've learned that quick fixes can sometimes become excuses for not dealing with the more painful fundamentals of international and national problems. A poorly executed act of sympathy can exacerbate the problem that it is meant to solve. Consider Rwanda.

Until 1994 Rwanda was under the rule of President Juvenal Habyarimana. Generally, Westerners liked him. From the perspective of international agencies, he was at worst a benevolent dictator, at best a progressive peacemaker promoting development. Compared to many African countries, Rwanda experienced a time of stability and growth during Habyarimana's rule. We now realize, however, that he was a cunning power broker and, to a certain degree, a racist. He made sure that the benefits of international aid projects accrued mainly either to his extended family or to the northwestern region of Rwanda from which he came.

The people of Rwanda's southern half were well aware of this inequity. All Rwandans had to carry identity cards that showed their ethnicity. If you were Tutsi, you faced discrimination whether you were from the north or the south. Though 10 to 15 percent of the population was Tutsi, no Tutsi was allowed to hold a leadership position in government or the military. A small group of Tutsi ran profitable business enterprises, but they were well aware that the price for the freedom to carry on business was not to interfere with or criticize Habyarimana's dictatorial hold. Rwanda's leaders drained the economy into their own bank accounts, while making sure that no opponent could get enough political strength to challenge the status quo. Habyanmana manicured his image for Western donors, and aid dollars poured in. The government and the army put on a friendly face to those of us working in the country.

The Rwandans were not fooled by this political masquerade. They understood the rules of the game, according to the former Rwandan minister of defense, James Gasana, who escaped from Rwanda in 1993. An insightful moderate, he would probably have been killed for his political stance by the powers that eventually led to the 1994 genocide. In a paper presented at the Ecumenical Institute in Bossey, Switzerland, in 1996, Gasana stated that the Rwandan army served only one purpose: to protect the power elite. This is not unique to Rwanda. Says Steven Were Omamo of Kenya's leader: "[Daniel arap] Moi's government. . . is widely viewed as an engine of domination instead of the agent of the popular will, more interested in maintaining old forms of influence and patronage for a minority than in expanding opportunity for the majority. This, I believe, is the root of our current troubles." Wangari Maathai, the legendary leader of the Green Belt Movement in Kenya, states: "Leadership in Africa has been. . . concerned with the opportunity to control the state and all its resources. Such 1eadership sees the power, prestige and comfortable lifestyles that the national resources can support. It is the sort of leadership that has built armies and security networks to protect itself against its own citizens."

In countries such as these, the army and secret service are part of the political machine. They silence their opposition and prevent any broad-based power sharing. When I lived in Rwanda, one of my employees told me that his elderly mother had tried to vote against the continuation of the Habyarimana regime and been prevented from doing so. When she then stated that an old woman with mud on her feet from the fields ought to be allowed to vote against the official who drives his Mercedes Benz to the polling booth, she was arrested.

Though it is hard to prove, it is widely accepted that some African leaders promote ethnic violence during election times or when their power is challenged. The powerful are willing to injure and kill people so that they can continue to feed unhindered on the country's resources. Mobutu Sese Seko, the former president of Zaire (now the Democratic Republic of Congo), so ferociously plundered his country's resources that at his death his estimated worth stood at between $5 billion and $10 billion. His country's national debt was $14 billion.

Even some of the church leaders in such countries become involved in power games and ethnic divisiveness instead of serving as champions of justice. They, too, may have a vested interest in maintaining the status quo. We only need to consider our own history of race relations to understand how this can happen. Sometimes the flow of international charitable aid into the church attracts self-interested people into the institution; not all church leaders are oriented to serving the people. Many courageous men and women of the church have fought for justice, but many others have manipulated the system for their own gain.

Do we need to do something to help deeply indebted countries? Absolutely. Is the industrialized world partly responsible for their plight? Absolutely. Do we want to encourage corrupt leaders by giving them money that will enable them to pretend to be benevolent lovers of the people? Absolutely not. If we are going to forgive debt, let us not fool ourselves into thinking that we can outsmart the cunning men and women who are experienced at manipulating the international community for their own benefit. These leaders who are so good at sleight of hand will empty our pockets while they throw a few crumbs to the poor, and then laugh as their own bank accounts grow.

If a country is governed by a small, corrupt power elite and the national debt is really the debt of that elite, then let them face their people without foreign aid. The international community placed strong economic sanctions on the former white South African government. Even though those sanctions also impacted the poor, no one called for their discontinuation. Everyone agreed that ending the evil of apartheid required stern measures. Why can't we see that apartheid-like policies also exist in other countries? The world has shut its eyes to the racist policies of Rwanda and Burundi. Instead of imposing sanctions, we want to forgive their debts. When Kenya's leaders stir the country's racial tensions into riots, we look the other way and then talk about forgiving the government's debts.

Some will accuse me of paternalism and of ignoring our own guilt. But anyone who has lived among .the people of countries with corrupt regimes has seen what happens when money comes in from the outside. The Jubilee 2000 campaigners claim to be aware of dictatorial and international power cliques. They state, "Jubilee 2000 calls for co-responsibility of debtors and creditors for the debt crisis. Remission of debt should be worked out through a fair and transparent process ensuring full participation of debtors in negotiations on debt relief." But can there be such a thing as "transparent processes" in countries where spies and guns counter any threat to the status quo? Why does it take a coup d'etat to change most African governments?

We will only increase our guilt if we inhibit necessary, fundamental changes from occurring in these countries. We recognized this in dealing with the former Rhodesia and South Africa. But not with Rwanda. We seem to be blind to black-on-black racism and corruption. Only fundamental change would have prevented the genocide in Rwanda. Only fundamental change will stop the incessant coups d'etat in nations where one group after another seeks. to grow fat on the country's resources.

A groundswell of opposition to corrupt leaders is rising in several African nations. The West must not provide the leaders of such nations with the means to mollify their populations temporarily while they solidify their positions of power. Where the church is in bed with the government, it should also be considered suspect. At the same time, the church in the West must educate itself about our history of foreign political manipulation focused on protecting our own self-interests. This understanding should be a prerequisite to joining campaigns like that of Jubilee 2000.

Forgiving debts is a worthwhile enterprise, consistent with biblical teachings. But the admonition to fight for the oppressed must equally be kept in mind. Forgiving a national debt and freeing the oppressed are not necessarily the same thing. In fact, they may be opposites. Let us proceed cautiously. We should not help any poor country that has a large, internally focused military or secret service. We must deal with more than the superficial issue of debt relief. The West must acknowledge its role in creating and supporting corrupt dictatorships. The economic powers need to help poor countries ruled by benevolent governments to get a sure footing in the international economic system.

Ultimately, we must realize that we in the West can not "fix" the problems of the poor countries. The people themselves must rise up and say no to their corrupt power elites. They must say no to the petty corruption that occurs at every police station and customs office. They must say no to benefiting from the ill-gotten funds of family members with access to power. They must say no to preying on ethnic groups who are outside of the power clique. They must say no to corrupt spiritual leaders. Until this is done, debt relief will provide only a temporary respite, a time when leaders can rest more peacefully in their expensive villas. It will only camouflage the slow, under-the-surface boil in countries ruled by corrupt dictators and their minions.

The church must not look to economic cures while ignoring systemic disease. We must not swing the odds against our brothers and sisters who are fighting for change. They understand the need for changed hearts. To paraphrase Bakole Wa Ilunga's book The Paths of Liberation: A Third World Spirituality: The path of liberation is long and winding, but it always must go through the heart of humanity.

Sharing in the Holy Spirit (Gen.1:1-2:4;Ps.8;Matt.28:16-20;2 Cor. 13:11-13)

It is getting harder in the modern translations of the Genesis stories, to extract what Christians have traditionally assumed were references to the three persons of the Trinity. What was clearly translated as "the spirit of God" in the King James Version is "a strong wind from God" in the New Revised Standard Version. If the third person is no longer obvious, neither is the second. Only by the evangelist John's inspiration could the word that God spoke in creating various aspects of the universe be understood as the second person who would be incarnate in Jesus of Nazareth.

Standing by itself, the creation story reveals only the Creator. While it may be possible to work from the idea of God making humankind in the image of God back to the Trinity, it requires the assumption that there is some threefold characteristic to us, either in our constitution or relationship to one another as male and female.

There is something suspect about our desire to apply what scripture reveals of God to the Bible's first mention of God. It maybe better to let the Genesis story say what it says without added meanings. In other words, all we know of God at the beginning comes from that act of creation out of which the universe came into being. God is revealed as acting carefully, lovingly, to bring forth the world and humankind. We are led to see the world as good, men and women as good and other creatures as good because this is how the Creator saw them. That is a great deal to learn from the first verses of the Bible without adding more.

Similarly, the ending of Matthew is powerful even without its emphasis on the triune formula in which baptism is to be administered. It is Matthew's unique testimony to the risen Jesus as the Redeemer who now declares that God has given him all authority necessary for the redemption of the earth. Disciples are to be made of all nations, disciples through whom the divine work of redemption will continue. As disciples do their work and live their lives, Jesus promises to be present with them even to the end of the age.

The commission to baptize includes the indication that baptism is to be done in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Yet many now understand this to be a formula derived from Christian worship and read back into the Matthean resurrection account.

Rather than insisting that scripture make the doctrine of the Trinity explicit, perhaps we should allow the Trinity to remain implicit and affirm it out of our own experience, our own living with God. The best help I ever received in understanding how the idea of the Trinity may evolve from our Christian development rather than be imposed as an abstract formula came from two four-year-olds (one of them my own) with whom I spent a winter's afternoon18 years ago while their mothers were shopping. Somehow they decided that they were going to explain to me what they knew of the divine. They did it with such sincerity and enthusiasm that I still remember what they said.

I needed to know they advised me, that first there was God and God loves. Long, long ago God made everything. God is everywhere and sees everything but you can't see God. On the other hand, they said, you can see Jesus or at least pictures of Jesus are because he was down here where we are. Jesus is simply wonderful and loves us very much, children as much as grown-ups. If you can't see Jesus right now, it is because he is in heaven, but he stays in touch with us so well he might as well still be here. A lot of the time it seems as if he is.

As they talked, however, they did not talk about God alone or Jesus alone, but of "God and Jesus." Together "God and Jesus" were a wonderful divine partnership who made the world a wonderful and beautiful place to be.

From their perspective, nothing was missing. They had digested what was taught about God in the creation story and what was taught about Jesus in the Gospels. Had I shared with them the two parts of Paul's benediction, the blessing or prayer with which he ended 2 Corinthians, they would have understood it. After saying "The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ," I would need to explain the word grace as "a wonderful gift from Jesus that leaves you very happy," and they would have been able to connect with that. I would not have to say a thing about "the love of God" because they already believed that God loved them; that part of the prayer simply repeats something they already knew and believed.

What they would not understand, however, would be the last part: "the communion of the Holy Spirit" or "the sharing in the Holy Spirit" (NRSV alternate reading). It takes an adult self-consciousness -- the experience of an adult living and trying to believe but knowing doubt, trying to do the right thing but knowing failure, trying to be confident but sensing despair -- to also know that there is a part of God that helps us through those obstacles, a part which is different from God's love or Christ's gift of salvation.

Sharing in that part of God leaves us able to say, with the conviction of Paul, that "nothing will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord." God is revealed as a loving Creator, a compassionate Savior and a mysterious presence allowing us to overcome what we could not on our own. This is the Trinity. It is the last thing to be said about God, after we have lived and grown and struggled. Then we discover that it was the Spirit that allowed us to cry, "Abba, Father" in the first place and to perceive God's saving love in Jesus Christ.

Unquenchable Fire (Lk. 3:7-18)

You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come?" Talk about throwing the book at your listeners. Where did this Baptist study preaching anyway? Didn’t they teach John the importance of introductions, of "contracting" and "partnering" with his listeners? But he isn’t listening to homiletics professors.

"Look around," John says. "Seems we’ve got some bad trees around here not bearing good fruit. Everyone of ‘em is going to be cut down and thrown into the fire. A winnowing time is coming. The wheat and the chaff will be separated, and the chaff will burn with unquenchable fire.

And yet, Luke says, this is how John "proclaimed the good news to the people." Since when has hell been good news?

From what I can see, people are not banging on the doors of our churches to hear more about hell, and certainly not just before Christmas. Those preoccupied with hell -- its geography, supporting cast and the permanent nature of its accommodations -- are more likely to find definitive answers from the radio stations of the Bible Belt than from the average pulpit.

If we speak of hell at all this time of year, we are probably alluding to some aspect of the commercialized pressure cooker called "the holiday season." We’re not thinking so much of Satan’s legions as of the hordes struggling to find an accommodating sales clerk in Bloomingdales or the traffic circling the malls in search of a closer parking spot. God knows it can be hell.

But hell? You know, hell’s hell? That’s not what comes to mind at Advent. We’ve come a long way from John the Baptist, and from our medieval forebears too. The four "last things" these Christians pondered as they sang their Dies irae were death, judgment, heaven and yes, hell. These four topics gave medieval preachers a sermon theme for each of the four Sundays in Advent.

Perhaps our medieval ancestors were more honest than we about a basic human impulse that finds joy in final judgments. Christians too sometimes want to see people getting smoked. We want to watch while the bad guys get it. We want them locked up and the keys thrown away; we want them squirming and cowering before the families of their victims; and we want their flesh frying in the electric chair. "See you in hell," says Clint Eastwood, as he shoots Gene Hackman, the crooked lawman in Unforgiven. Right on, Clint! Hell’s what he deserved.

So why wouldn’t John’s hellfire come as good news to the crowds who had put up with the bad guys for so long -- the Romans, the system, the Herods? The fire was being prepared for these bad apples, and that was good news. And for those who planned and manned gas chambers in Auschwitz, genocide in Rwanda and "ethnic cleansing" in Bosnia, why not hell? If God is just, where else could God put them? Perhaps tyrants and evildoers ought to go to bed every night thinking that there might just be a hell.

But what the New Testament proclaims as a reality is not hell. It proclaims that our real life is in Jesus Christ so that what became of him will become of us: "For as all die in Adam, so all will be made alive in Christ." It proclaims that "God so loved the world" and that the Lord is "not wishing that any should perish." God’s will for us does not include hell, and nowhere does the gospel proclaim, "The kingdom of hell is at hand."

Nevertheless, the coming of one whom John calls "more powerful than I" calls into judgment every future that is projected apart from the will and way of Jesus Christ. This wanting and seeking of our kingdom come, our thousand-year Reich, our future, not God’s -- this destiny we make for ourselves is hell. That’s why hell means going it alone, apart from God, all the way to the bitter end.

Why do we who stand before the dawning of the kingdom turn away from it even as it comes to us? Why do we refuse our freedom and turn it into our condemnation? Is it because we do not know what we are doing? Or because we know and do it anyway? Is it because we are too anxious and insecure to live openly and generously? Or because we are the victimizing victims of the powers and forces of this age?

We can speculate about these possibilities, but the church is commissioned not to proclaim the advent of hell to all who are on their mad way there, but rather the advent of Jesus Christ. He has come, as John promised. Alone and abandoned he descended into the depths of hell. Thus, there is absolutely no possibility for us that is beyond the reach of God’s inexhaustible grace.

As we solemnly recall the possibility of saying no to God-with-us and the possibility of hell, let us remember the promise of the gospel: One more powerful than John is coming. He will baptize us with the Holy Spirit and with a fire that will burn all that we can ever plan or project for ourselves alone. The one who was judged will be the judge: he holds in his hand the keys of Hades and the destiny of all.

Ready for Prime Time (Lk. 3:1-6)

Luke does not write for a Christian century. He does not count time from the birth of Jesus. Instead, he reckons the years from the advent of Tiberius as emperor. It was, Luke tells us, in the 15th year of this Caesar’s reign that "the word of God came.

Under great Tiberius’s judgment seat sat the lesser rulers: Pilate up in Jerusalem; the Herod boys down in Galilee and beyond, running things with their usual unbrotherly squabbling; and Lysanias stuck in Abilene, better known to us as the Bekka Valley, scene of Mideast terror. Annas and Caiaphas were in their appointed places, providing communitarian cement for Rome’s social engineers. Luke, in a chronicle replete with these people and places, seems to be saying that when "the Word of God came" it really came. It came all the way down into this world; it came into our world, the world of political, economic and religious power, the world of the Caesars.

Of course, for his subjects, Caesar’s word was God’s word. Herod’s word was God’s word in Galilee. Even Caiaphas’s word had a divine ring to it. Of course, people muttered, "They shouldn’t play God." But such rulers had been playing God for millennia. They’d been deciding who lives and who dies from the beginning. And these pols were real pros. They could outfox the best of them.

Our own clever deities peer down on us from their benches and professorial chairs and stock exchange seats. A thumb turns, a head nods, an eyebrow rises, and you too are history: your livelihood, your loved ones, your reputation, your life swept away in a second. That’s the way it was -- and is. The gods decree, and you are gone. So, like us, John and his cousin, Jesus, died subject to the de facto deities whose word was -- and is -- the law.

Luke is no fool. He renders to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s. Caesar does mark our days and tell us the time. A Christian calendar with its Christian centuries is not a Lucan passion. So when Luke announces that "the word of God came," it comes in the 15th year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius; it comes down to this tough turf where the reigning gods number our days.

Yet after this apparent deference to Caesar, Luke begins to render to God a record and a reckoning that no Caesar could foresee. When "the word of God came," it did not come from Caesar’s palace or the senior Herod’s temple. The word of God came to a location far from these tentacles and pinnacles of power. It came to an Israel held captive in its own land, with a new set of pharaohs playing the old role of God. At that unpromising time, Luke tells us, the real word of the true God came, as it once came to Moses and Elijah and Isaiah. But now it came to John the son of Zechariah.

Those who followed Luke’s story out of the wilderness and into Rome itself succeeded in Christianizing the centuries. Unlike Luke, the whole world now counts its time from the birth of Jesus. The Christian era has become the Common Era. Since Christianity has been such a civilizing success, it is doubly hard for us to return to the time when Christianity’s message was primed in the wilderness. But now this "prime time" has come again.

It’s the end of our era, the twilight of our regency, the time of our imminent disestablishment. It’s hard for us to take: an America where there are more Muslims than Episcopalians; where only the Mormons still have a Landeskirche; and where an Ivy League university can celebrate its anniversary with scrupulous silence about the church that gave it birth and nurtured it into maturity. The principalities and powers we have served have grown tired of us. We’re an embarrassment.

The emerging world civilization no longer needs Christianity. Christian colleges, hospitals, charities, political parties, centuries or nations are an anachronism. Civilization no longer needs us robed, anointed or ordained to remind it of its time or to order its days. The world has come of age, and Caesar’s time for our tutelage is running out. As our exile looms, and marginality becomes our reality, is there any word from God? Any word for those streaming back into the wilderness?

We can hear the words, words we have heard before, time and time again: "Repentance," "baptism," "forgiveness of sins." We’ve heard them all before, and so we never really hear them until they come to us in our wilderness, in the shambles of our civilized hopes and plans. Divested of our power, stripped of our rank, no longer running things and keeping time, maybe God will finally get through to us in the wilderness as in the days of Tiberius Caesar. Now that would be an Advent! To discover at the end of the age that God is readying prime time for us; to find as we’re about to go under that what is being cooled in the Jordan is only our fevered panting for dying gods.

If the living God is not a liar, if God is faithful to the promise that "all flesh shall see salvation," then our time, too, is in God’s hands, however we reckon it. And when even John begins to doubt, Jesus sends back word: "Go and tell John what you have seen and heard: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, the poor have good news brought to them. And blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me.

Are we ready for prime time?