Wagging the Dog

Knowledge puffs up, but love builds up. Anyone who claims to know something does not yet have the necessary knowledge; but anyone who loves God is known by him.  - 1 Corinthians 1-3

We Presbyterians are big on knowledge. We expect our pastors to be well educated, with at least a masters degree. Those with doctorates usually wear the associated chevrons on the sleeves of their robes. By the way, the robes Presbyterian pastors wear are not priestly garb. They are academic gowns, pointing to our special training rather than our ecclesiastical status. Like I said, we are big on knowledge.

It doesn't stop there. As a denomination, Presbyterians tend to be an educated sort. Traditionally, Presbyterian congregations have had more than our fair share of doctors, lawyers, bankers, teachers, professors, and such. As a result, Presbyterian worship sometime tends a bit toward the elitist side. We love pipe organs and Bach and Christmas cantatas. Our go-to Bible translation is the New Revised Standard Version (NRSV) which is written at an 11th grade reading level, one of the highest among the English translations. By comparison, the more popular New International Version (NIV) is written on an 8th grade level.

I, along with many others, think of knowledge and education as generally good things. Yet Paul speaks of a problem with knowledge. Paul is a reasonably well educated fellow himself, but he criticizes his Corinthian congregants for their attachment to knowledge, urging them to be shaped more by love.

Knowledge, it seems, can easily become the tail that wags the dog. Our worship - the sermons, liturgy, and music - can become more a statement about us than a genuine encounter with God where we offer ourselves and are equipped and nourished to be Christ's body in the world. Worship easily becomes about the preacher's fine preaching, the choir's great singing, and so on. Worse, we sometimes erect barriers to those who aren't as educated, musically sophisticated, etc. as we are.

We Presbyterians say that our congregations are supposed to be provisional manifestations of God's kingdom, that day when all divisions end and people of every race, clan, and tribe join together as one. Yet too often our congregations simply mirror the divisions - ethnic, cultural, economic, educational, style, etc. - that are found in our world.

The Apostle Paul insists that love must take precedence over knowledge. Puffed up knowledge says, "This church is for people like us, who understand like us and appreciate the things we do." But love says, "How can I help you encounter the love of God that embraces all?" regardless of who that "you" is.

Now it turns out it is very difficult to do church without doing it in some particular way. Having a worship style and musical preferences is unavoidable. Every church has them, and a pipe organ or a choir that sings Bach is not, in and of itself, a problem. The issue is, what drives our decisions about style and liturgy and so on? Is it self giving love? Or is it a puffed up sense that our way of doing things is smarter and better and the right way?

In another or his letters, Paul writes, "As many of you as were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of your are one in Christ Jesus." Paul names all the big divisions of the world he lived in, then insists that we who are joined to Christ in baptism have no part in these.

Knowledge sometimes puffs up by clinging to the very things that divide us. Love, on the other hand, builds up because it is focused on ending divisions. Like Martin Luther King Jr's dream, it sees a day when divisions end and it actively works for the coming of that day. And when the Church fails to work toward that day, it forgets who it is, becoming a parody of itself, the tail wagging the dog.

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Leaving Jesus Amazed

In today's gospel Jesus makes his triumphal return to his hometown. He's begun to make it big out in the world, to draw crowds and collect a band of followers, and now he makes a visit back to Nazareth. It seems to go well at first. Folks are "astounded," and they wonder where he got all this. But then it kicks in. Wait a minute. We know Jesus. We know his family. His brothers and sisters still live here. "And they took offense at him." That's what my translation says, but the word translated "took offense" more literally means "to stumble," and it's the root of our word "scandalize." After the hometown crowd stumbles, the gospel story ends with, "And he could do no deed of power there, except that he laid his hands on a few sick people and cured them. And he was amazed at their unbelief."

I am struck by this picture of Jesus, amazed and scratching his head at how people cannot see him because he does not fit into what they already know about him. What is more, his power is constrained by their inability to see him for who he really is. And I can't help but wonder about the ways I box Jesus into a picture that I have of him.

Like Jesus' homies in Nazareth, I grew up with Jesus, too. My parents read my Bible stories and I saw pictures of him and heard more stories about him in Sunday School and in worship. Jesus was also hard to miss in the southern culture of the 1960s where I grew up. And so I "know" Jesus quite well. But what if the Jesus I "know" is, in some ways, like the Jesus those in Nazareth knew, a stumbling block to encountering the real grace and power of God in my midst.

I wonder how often the conventional and, too often, trite images of Jesus we traffic in at the church are as much problem as help. I wonder how often Jesus looks at me and those like me and shakes his head, amazed at how clueless we can be, how oblivious to the power of God seeking to work with and through us, simply because it does not fit into the pictures of Jesus we carry around with us.

It is incredibly difficult to know when we have failed to notice something. If Jesus was there and we missed him, how can we be aware of our having failed to be aware in the first place. If there is a burning bush on the roadside as I drive home tonight but I don't see it, I have no way of knowing I missed it, unless someone tells me about it. And if there is no one to tell me I missed Jesus, how am I to know?

At least today's gospel does alert me to the very real possibility that I might miss Jesus, obscured in the assumptions and preconceived notions of him that I've acquired from church and culture. It warns me that the Sunday School Jesus, or any other number of Jesuses, might become for me a pair of blinders that hide the presence of the living Christ that is right beside me.

I hope that I don't amaze Jesus, at least not in the manner the folks at Nazareth did, too frequently. And if I do, it sure would be nice if someone would tell me.

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Sermon video: On Knowing, Not Knowing, and Journeying

Audios of sermons and worship located on FCPC website.

Sermon: On Knowing, Not Knowing, and Journeying

John 4:5-29

On Knowing, Not Knowing, and Journeying

James Sledge                                                                                       March 23, 2014

It has been twenty years since the genocide in Rwanda that, by some estimates, killed more than a million people. A long, complicated history of animosity and discrimination lay behind the genocide, but the events of 1994 were unprecedented. One group decided simply to wipe out the other. During the slaughter, many took refuge in church sanctuaries, only to be killed there, often hacked to death by machete. If you go to Rwanda today, there are stark memorials to this tragedy in some of those churches. In one, bloody clothing lies draped over pews, and skulls are arranged on shelves. Many of these memorials display a quote from a young survivor of the genocide that reads, “If you really knew me, and you really knew yourself, you would not have killed me.”

It is easy to hate the other that we do not know. I’m convinced that dramatic change in acceptance of gays, lesbians and same sex marriage in our country is largely about knowing. When gays and lesbians were seen by many as a strange and scary other, not like anyone they knew, it was easier to hate. But as more and more people came out and became known, the ignorance allowing such hate became harder and harder to maintain.

Still, it is remarkably easy to encounter another without actually knowing her or him, and our tendency to cluster in like groups makes this even easier. I see this all too often in the church. Some liberal/progressive Christians refer to conservative counterparts as dim-witted, ignorant Neanderthals. And some conservatives speak of liberal counterparts as heretics who reject Jesus and the Bible in favor of the latest secular fads.

If you’re on Facebook, you see the posts where one side blasts the other. And whether the divisions are religious, political, ethnic, or economic, the language is remarkably similar. The other is demonized. Name calling is the norm, and “idiot” is the tamest word used. When one of these posts about “those idiots” is made, an online echo chamber ensues, as one comment after another weighs in on how “those idiots” are totally lacking in any redeeming quality or human decency. And woe to the well-intended person who tries to introduce a bit of restraint or calm consideration of “those idiots’” point of view.

A Funeral for Fred Phelps

Unless you've been offline all day, you probably are well aware of the death of Fred Phelps, described in the NY Times headline as a "Virulently Antigay Preacher." Not surprisingly there has been plenty of reaction on Facebook and Twitter, everything from "Ding, dong the witch is dead" to much more measured responses. (I apparently don't follow anyone who wants to praise him.)

I don't feel much need to add my comments to the mix, but as a pastor who from time to time is asked to do funerals for people I do not know, and for people I know to be rather unsavory, I wonder how I would respond if a family member asked me to do a funeral for someone like Phelps.

One of the things I vividly recall from my seminary days are words spoken by my theology professor and mentor, Doug Ottati. I believe it was during a discussion about Calvin's Institutes, but I'm not certain. Somewhere in the discussion, Dr. Ottati remarked on how there is no such thing in God's creation as pure, unadulterated evil. God is the only Creator, and God has not created evil. The worst that could be said about anything or anyone, even the devil himself, is that it is a corrupted good; demonically corrupted perhaps, but a corrupted good nonetheless.

Not many of us are inclined to speak of Fred Phelps, not to mention someone like Hitler, as good. Yet my brand of Christianity insists that despite layers of distortion and corruption that may mar and all but completely obscure any goodness, all humans are part of God's good creation. That, of course, means that all humans have some inherent value in God's eyes, that all are, in some way, redeemable.

None of that means to gloss over the terrible pain that Fred Phelps has inflicted on others out of hatred rooted in a perverted understanding of God and the Bible. But if in fact one of God's good creatures lurked somewhere beneath all that putrid hate, shouldn't I do his funeral if asked? And would I hold out some hope that God's love could embrace even him?

Whose Are You?

"Or do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, which you have from God, and that you are not your own? For you were bought with a price; therefore glorify God in your body." (1 Corinthians 6:19-20)

It is a statement that runs counter to much of modern, Western thought. "You are not your own." How dare you say that to me. I am my own. "I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul." That is from a poem I had to memorize as an eighth grader, the lasts lines of "Invictus" by William Ernest Henley. The poem is quite famous, and it has been used by people in dire circumstances as motivation to carry on; Nelson Mandela while in prison for example.

When taken simply to mean, "No other person shall be my master," the poem may indeed be a great source of inspiration. But when taken beyond that and understood to speak of ultimate things, it is fundamentally at odds with  Christian faith.

A favorite hymn of mine ends each verse with the refrain, "We belong to God. We belong to God." And the first question in the old Heidelberg Catechism asks, "What is your only comfort, in life and in death?"  The answer begins, "That I belong -- body and soul, in life and in death -- not to myself but to my faithful Savior, Jesus Christ..."  Or as Paul says, "You are not your own."

Paul is addressing an issue of little concern in our society, that of "fornication." But even if we do not share all of Paul's cultural values, mores, and taboos, perhaps our world would still be a bit better if we agreed with him that we are not our own, that God has brought us into the household of God as beloved children at great cost to Godself. If I understand myself to be a beloved and valued child of God, bought at great price, then surely I would want to live in ways that are pleasing to this God. And if I understand the other, be she friend or enemy, also as beloved and valued by God, then surely I would treat her differently that we often treat one another.

"You are not your own." If I am not my own, then living my life is not simply a matter of pleasing myself, of doing what I want. I am not "free" in the sense most people use the word, because I cannot act in ways that dishonor this one to whom I belong. And if I did act in such ways, it would cause me great pain.

I wonder how different my life might be if I did not so regularly forget, "You are not your own." I wonder how different our world might be if large numbers of people lived their daily lives in the full awareness of, "You are not your own."

The witness of the Bible from beginning to end, and the foundation of Christian, Jewish, and Muslim faiths, is that we are creatures created by our Creator. When we fail to realize and acknowledge this, we get confused about who we truly are. We fail to understand and know ourselves, and so our lives become distorted and askew from their true purposes.

"You are not your own." I'm going to keep repeating that and hope that it sticks with me.

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O Lord, It's Hard To Be Humble

I will bless the LORD at all times;
    his praise shall continually be in my mouth. 
My soul makes its boast in the LORD;
    let the humble hear and be glad.

Psalm 34:1-2

Let the humble hear... Why the humble? Why not everyone? Is the psalmist discriminating against the non-humble? Or is it only the humble who can hear?

Our society does not really honor humility. We pay lip service to it at times, but we value impressive résumés. We value people who know their stuff and who are assertive. If someone is overly arrogant, it may turn us off, but we're happy with those who are strong, decisive, and make no apologies for it.

This is true in the Church as well. My own Presbyterian denomination has long demanded that its clergy be highly educated. Ordination as a pastor is reserved for those with a college degree and a seminary degree. There are good and sound reasons for this, but it does mean that, as a group, Presbyterian pastors are not necessarily the most humble lot. More often than not, we know a great deal more about the Bible, theology, and doctrine than most members in the congregations we serve. It's not much of a leap from there to thinking that in matters related to Bible and theology - a big percentage of matters in a church - we are the ones who know best. "If only the congregation would do as I say, everything would be wonderful."

Pastors sometimes have a hard time hearing God's voice or sensing the movement of the Spirit when such inklings come from people other than them. This difficulty may be magnified when such inklings don't immediately enthrall the pastor. After all, said pastor likely has all sorts of great ideas he or she has been struggling to disseminate to the congregation's members and leadership. 

Of course this isn't just a problem for pastors. Congregations often come to view their particular way of doing things as "the right way." They may even come to view their way as sacrosanct and see any sort of significant change as bordering on sacrilege. 

All this can make for a most unhappy mix: pastors who are sure they know a better way and congregations certain they have already found that better way. It can get difficult for one to listen to the other. 

And what about listening to God? It isn't that people of faith don't want to listen to God, but when we presume we already know what God will say, we are likely to dismiss anything that we don't already agree with. How can God possibly get a word in edgewise if we will only listen to a voice that confirms what we already "know?"

I'm not suggesting that everyone go around acting like they don't know anything. That would create an entirely different sort of mess. But I don't believe that much of the conflict, struggle, and bitter partisanship afflicting both Church and society are the result of humility in some unhealthy extreme. More often, they are the result of our proud insistence that we are right and others are wrong.

Perhaps a worthwhile Lenten reflection would be simply to meditate on this notion that only the humble can hear God. 

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Image Problems and Christ-Shaped Lives

If Paul were alive today, I'm not sure his technique would work so well. As he tries to correct his Corinthian congregation, he draws this contrast between them and himself.

We are fools for the sake of Christ, but you are wise in Christ. We are weak, but you are strong. You are held in honor, but we in disrepute. To the present hour we are hungry and thirsty, we are poorly clothed and beaten and homeless, and we grow weary from the work of our own hands. When reviled, we bless; when persecuted, we endure; when slandered, we speak kindly. We have become like the rubbish of the world, the dregs of all things, to this very day.

The sarcasm is pretty thick here, but even so, I'm not sure Paul would gain many points with a modern audience by touting his weakness, disrepute, and suffering. We are a results and success oriented people, and Paul's points don't speak to either.

That Paul thinks this argument has force speaks to some picture or the Christian life that he assumes he and the Corinthians share. He expects they will pick up on the contrast he is making and see how they have gotten off track. But I wonder how many of us would.

When we picture it in our minds, what is the shape and form of the Christian life? What are the marks that one could reasonably expect to be exhibited by anyone seeking faithfully to follow Jesus? 

Considering the variety of Christian denominations and groups, a variety of answers to such questions is to be expected. Still, I think a great deal of the Church's current image problems come from such answers, and from the lack of them.That is because those with clear-cut, well-defined pictures of what the Christian life looks like more often define it in ways that are hostile toward those who aren't part of their group. Meanwhile, those Christian who are more open toward others and interested in relationship with those different from themselves often have only the vaguest picture of the Christian life. (Brian McLaren explains this much better than I do in his book Why Did Jesus, Moses, the Buddha, and Mohammed Cross the Road?: Christian Identity in a Multi-Faith World.)

Quite often, especially for more moderate and liberal sorts, "Christian" defines a very narrow slice of people's lives. It is private and personal, more about internal beliefs than daily living. Our day to day lives are shaped much more by cultural values and forces than they are by following Jesus. We are consumers focused on pursuing the American dream, or a number of other possible identities, with a dash of Christian faith sprinkled in.

That makes Paul's argument to the Corinthians far from compelling to us. It also means that the image of the Christian life, as far as outsiders are concerned, is shaped primarily by those who do have a strong notion of what that life is. Therefore many outside the Church see us as focused on personal salvation and a few social issues such as banning abortion and fighting against LGBT rights.

What does it mean to follow Jesus? How does that make you and your faith community a light to the world and a beacon of hope? How does it broadcast an alternate portrait of the Christian life to the prevailing one that drives so many away from church and from Jesus?

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Preaching Thoughts on What to Preach

A children's musical liberated me from the pulpit in our traditional worship service today, allowing me a bit more unstructured thoughts on the gospel for our early, informal service. One of those thoughts had to do with  what to preach on in the first place. In this congregation, we typically utilize texts from the Revised Common Lectionary, a three year cycle of readings that list an Old Testament, Psalm, Epistle, and Gospel reading for each Sunday. I like using the lectionary. It helps music folks do long range planning, and there are many resources for interpretation and worship that are tied to it. It is not a perfect resource, however.

There are quite few important passages that never appear in the lectionary. The editors of the lectionary also make choices that seem strange to me regarding where a particular reading begins and ends. Today's gospel is a good case in point. It is the account of Nicodemus visiting Jesus as night, a visit that leaves Nicodemus terribly befuddled, prompting Jesus' famous words about how "God so loved the world..." The lectionary passage ends with, "God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him." This ending comes mid-paragraph. Perhaps that is because the following verse contains this line. "But those who do not believe are condemned already."

It seems highly likely that the lectionary editors left the last three verses of Jesus' speech out because they didn't like the sound of them. Jesus had this nice thing going about love and not condemning but saving. Then comes this harsh stuff about condemning and people who are evil preferring darkness over light. Let's just leave that out.

In a way I understand such thinking. Jesus words do sound harsh. His words sound incongruent with our image of him, and so we, or in this case the lectionary editors, simply excise those words.(However, I'm not sure Jesus is speaking about ultimate categories of in or out, heaven or hell, and hearing him this way may cause us to miss what he's actually talking about).

In defense of those who set the lectionary, there are many times when it is a difficult editorial decision  to determine the precise place to begin or end, but this is not one of these times. This is simply taking the easy way out and avoiding verses that seem difficult to handle, and it's something we all do.

Most people who read the Bible, as well as those who preach from it, tend to embrace certain sorts of passages over others. Often these choices vary along the conservative-liberal continuum. Stereotypically, those who are more liberal may accuse conservatives of ignoring passages where God or Jesus speak to social-justice issues, or to a special concern for the poor, oppressed, and marginalized. At the same time, conservatives may accuse liberals of ignoring those passages where God or Jesus speak of religious purity, right belief, and high moral standards. These are stereotypes, but there is a hint of truth on both sides. Both liberals and conservatives tend to ignore God/Jesus when it suits us. We just ignore different things and emphasize different things.

In all such instances, we end up creating God in our own image. We expect God to cohere to our notions of what God should be like or how God should act. We take our religious knowledge and certainty and demand that God abide by these. That, by the way, is precisely what gets Nicodemus so confused. He is a learned religious man who thinks he knows how God works. He says as much when he comes to Jesus. "Rabbi we know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God." Nick knows about God, and so he already has Jesus slotted into his religious knowing. Unfortunately that leaves him little room maneuver, and he makes absolutely no progress in understanding Jesus during his visit.

(Actually, Nicodemus seems to disappear in the middle of today's reading. In verse 11, Jesus' shifts from saying "you" to saying "y'all," a shift not apparent in English but quite clear in the original  Greek. It's as though Jesus has given up trying to explain anything to this one who already knows, and so he shifts, speaking to some unseen audience, perhaps to us.)

If we don't want to be as befuddled as Nicodemus, we will do well to become a bit more humble about what we know. If God is going to speak to us, if Jesus is going to breathe new life into us, we need room to move and grow in the encounter with a God who almost always challenges what we think we know.

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God's Wish List for Me

I've long been intrigued by the way the story in today's gospel unfolds. When friends of a paralyzed man go to extraordinary lengths to get their friend close to Jesus' healing power, he is impressed with their faith. And so he says, "Son, your sins are forgiven."

We are told nothing about how these friends react. Presumably they were seeking a physical healing for their companion, and so they might well have initially been disappointed. Would Jesus have also healed the man if some of the scribes had not objected to his pronouncement of forgiveness? The story does  not tell us. It simply says that Jesus heals the man in order to confirm his authority to forgive sin. Perhaps I make too much of a dramatic literary device, but it appears that Jesus thought the man's primary need was forgiveness. The healing was simply a nice bonus.

I imagine that most folks who believe in God, and even those who merely suspect there might be a God, seek something from God on occasion . Perhaps it is a healing. Perhaps it is something less dramatic. But what if God thinks we most need is something else?

There is a perpetual temptation afflicting religious people that seeks to enlist God in doing what we want rather that letting God tell us what we need and what we should do. All too often, we view God as a resource we can draw on in fulfilling our plans and our desires. And it may never occur to us to consider whether or not our plans and desires cohere with God's.

When Jesus teaches his followers to pray, giving them that very Jewish prayer we call the Lord's Prayer, he does encourage us to ask for our basic needs, our sustenance for the day. But that comes after first asking that God's will be done. This is, of course, precisely the life Jesus models for us. He will pray to avoid the horror of the cross, but only if that is in keeping with God's will.

Like many people, I occasionally come to God with my wish list. I have plenty of things I would like God to give me, do for me, or explain to me. But very often, I think I get this praying thing backwards. What I most need is for God to show me what I should want, what I really need, and so what my deepest prayer should be.

O God, what is your wish list for me?

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A Ministry of Healing

Today's gospel is from the beginning of Jesus' public ministry. The passage features Jesus healing people of many different diseases and conditions. For those who know their Bible at all, these are familiar accounts, though I wonder if they don't sometimes become so much background noise. Jesus did healing miracles. We've heard all that before, and besides, we're a little nervous about miracles. They seem so... primitive.

And so it is easy for us to forget how much of Jesus' ministry was about offering people practical help. He healed people who were sick, cured people of mental illnesses, and fed people who were hungry. This was central to who he was.

Diana Butler Bass posted this on her Facebook status today. "In the 19th century, Christians founded hospitals as way to embody Jesus' call to heal. Why, in the 21st century, isn't every denomination starting a health care exchange as the contemporary form of Jesus' healing mission?? As genuine non-profits, they could act as counter-cultural examples of providing for human health, and even offering alternative sorts of services involving the spiritual dimension of healing. Come on, smart mainliners (and you are really, really smart and well-educated people -- can't fool me!). You can do this."

Such a thought had never occurred to me, but it is an intriguing one. And it got me to thinking about that label we throw around so easily: "the body of Christ." 

Mainline denominations such as my own Presbyterian Church (USA) have struggled quite a bit in recent decades. Our membership is in steep decline, and the average age in our congregations is getting older and older as younger adults reject the church we have made. But even in such times, Mainline denominations have tremendous resources. Many have huge foundations and endowments, and the value of our church properties is astronomical. Some of these properties are scarcely used, their former congregations having died or being well on their way to death.

When I think of all those church assets, along with all the budgets of those congregations that are in good shape, I wonder to what degree they represent the body of Christ in terms of the Christ of Scripture.  

In the opening pages of my denomination's Book of Order is a section entitled, "The Church Is the Body of Christ," and its description of what this looks like begins, "The Church is to be a community of faith, entrusting itself to God alone, even at the risk of losing its life." That certainly fits with the biblical Jesus. Perhaps we could try to be a bit better at imitating him.

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God's Foolishness

"But we proclaim Christ crucified..." So says Paul in today's verses from his letter to the Corinthian congregation. Paul is not simply rattling off a faith statement. He is emphasizing what a seemingly ridiculous notion this is. He says that according to your worldview, it is either scandalous or absurd. "Stumbling block" and "foolishness" are the actual words he uses as he says that a crucified Christ is scandalous for those who come at things from a Jewish/religious point of view and absurd for those with a Greek/Gentile/logical view.

It is interesting that Paul speaks as he does. He does not "proclaim Christ risen," but rather proclaims the crucified Christ as the power and wisdom of God, something inconceivable from a human point of view, either religious or otherwise. Not that Paul doesn't insist on Jesus' resurrection. He does. But he does not view the cross as a little difficulty along the way. It is the very center of his message.

He needs to reiterate this to the Corinthians because they have gotten a little too exuberant and triumphalist in their faith. They are apparently speaking of already experiencing resurrection themselves, something Paul understands as a future event. Worse, because they do not understand the power of the cross, they do not seek to live cross shaped lives.

There is much that feels modern about these Corinthians. Modern American Christianity is filled with triumphalism and often devoid of the cross. It easily turns faith into another consumer item that will make me happier or more fulfilled. It becomes one more item in a long list of "mores" that I think I must have. But Paul insists that real faith reorients us away from typical human thinking, either the religious or the secular kind.

Because Paul sees the crucified Christ as God's fullest expression of power, Paul comes to a whole new understanding of what it means to be human. To be fully human is to be animated by love. This is not romantic love, but like that, it is a devotion to the other that will risk suffering and even death, even when that other is an enemy. It is a power few in the world understand, but we are drawn to those who do.

Martin Luther King, Jr. clearly understood what Paul was talking about. That is why he can say, "Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that." This sort of love is not sappy or easy. It is risky and costly. But for Jesus, for Paul, and for Dr. King, it is more powerful than all those powers that the world leans upon for hope and security.

I often marvel at how conventional, risk averse, and like the world that Church is. I suppose this was inevitable after Constantine made Christianity the official religion of the empire, and the faith came to occupy a central place in Western culture. But I'm pretty sure Paul would say that we got a bit "off message" as a result. We accommodated our faith to those worldviews that see a crucified Christ as either scandal or foolishness. In the process, we robbed the faith of some of its power.

But the power of love, of light, of a crucified Christ, is still there, waiting for us to entrust ourselves to it. "But we proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles, but to those who are the called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God."

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