Perceptions from a Pewboy

In the New Testament book of James, after the author highlights the unholy behavior of mistreating the disenfranchised and ignoring the poor, he offers a teaching that is as timeless as it is revelatory: “What good is it,” he writes, “if you say that you have faith, but do not have works?” (James 2:14)

What does Scripture mean by “works?” I have always believed it to be a reference to those tangible works of ministry that bear witness to the kingdom that God inaugurated in Christ. Works of compassion and justice. Works emerging from a heart that has been transformed and reoriented by the love of Jesus Christ. “What good is it,” the biblical author writes, “if you say that you have faith but do not have works? If a brother or a sister is in trouble and lacks daily food, and you say to them, ‘God bless,’ but do not do anything to supply their bodily needs, what is the good of that?”

Then the biblical author encapsulates the urgency of his teaching in a powerfully unsettling way: “So,” he writes, “faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead.” (James 2:17)

I invite you to allow yourself to be unsettled and perhaps even undone by that biblical teaching for a moment. Allow the teaching to make its way into every chamber of your soul. “Faith by itself, if it has no works, is not a saving faith. It is a dead faith.”

Over the centuries of Christian theology, Christian thinkers have perpetuated what I consider to be a misguided and unfortunate debate. The debate is normally referred to as the “faith versus works debate,” and it hinges on this theological question: Are we saved by faith or are we saved by our good works? People on both sides of the debate cite particular scriptures to support their arguments. The people who believe that we are saved by faith alone (in Latin, “sola fide”) are quick to cite scriptures like Ephesians 2:8-9, which reads this way: “By grace we have been saved through faith, and this is not our own doing, but the gift of God, not the result of works, so that no one may boast.” That’s a pretty clear teaching, right?

But hold on. Because, on the other side of the debate are the people who maintain that salvation is received—not EARNED, mind you—but RECEIVED through the doing of good and compassionate works. They cite scriptures like Matthew 25:31-46, in which Jesus makes clear that, in the final judgment, our eternal reward or our eternal punishment has much to do with whether or not we have fed the hungry, given drink to the thirsty, clothed the naked, cared for the sick, and visited the prisoner. In Matthew 25, Jesus tells us that our good works are indeed an integral portion of the salvation that God has made possible.

For centuries, the theological debate has raged on, spawning hugely unfortunate extremes and unnecessary distortions of biblical truth. But in the book of James, it is made crystal clear to us that debating over faith and works is something like debating over bloodflow and breathing. Which would you rather do without, the flow of blood through your veins or the intake of oxygen? That would be a ridiculous conversation, since life depends upon both of these processes.

In much the same way, salvation depends, according to Scripture, upon both faith and good works. They are both manifestations of God’s saving grace, and they are both inseparably joined in the life of discipleship. Faith, without works, is dead. Good works, without faith, are random and unsubstantiated.

But allow me to be very clear about this: I am not suggesting that we have the wherewithal to EARN our salvation through either our faith or our works. We have neither the rectitude nor the righteousness to accomplish that. Salvation is God’s accomplishment and God’s gift, offered to us in grace. We cannot earn it, nor can we ever achieve it by our own merit. We can, however, RECEIVE God’s gift of salvation. (I don’t think that I have to say much to remind you that there is a vast difference between earning a prize and receiving a gift.)

The God-given, Spirit-empowered mechanism by which we RECEIVE God’s gift of salvation is the two-tiered mechanism of faith and works: faith in Jesus Christ accompanied by the good works that the love of Christ inspires within us.

The Greek word for faith that is utilized in the second chapter of James is a word that implies significantly more than an intellectual agreement or a cognitive speculation. In fact, the Greek word for faith is one that implies trust, reliance, dependable relationship. The kind of saving faith that Scripture describes, in other words, is a life-changing relationship with the living and ever-dynamic Christ—a relationship that changes us inwardly to such an extent that it becomes the joy of our life to bless others with works of mercy, not for the purpose of inflating our ego, but for the purpose of giving expression to the glorious and relentless love of Jesus Christ. That is why Scripture is able to say with conviction that faith without works is dead. If our faith is not accompanied by consistent works of mercy and ministry, then our faith cannot be a LIVING relationship with the LIVING Christ, whose very nature is to identify with the least and the lost.

The book of James would have us to believe that a disciple is a person of faith, but not just any faith. More specifically, a disciple is a person whose faith is nothing less than a daily walk with Jesus Christ and whose life bears witness to that daily walk through the frequent rendering of good and merciful works.

At some point today or tonight, many of us will do a very tangible thing that carries with it great spiritual significance. We won’t be forced to do it, but we will be invited to do it. Specifically, we will be invited to receive the imposition of ashes.

What a peculiar thing to do. On 359 ½ days of the year, we utilize mirrors and Kleenex for the purpose of making certain that there are no unsightly smudges on our visage. But on Ash Wednesday, we actually go out of our way to place an unsightly smudge upon ourselves. How bizarre is that?

Here’s a pertinent question: Why?

Why do we do it? Why the unsightly smudge? What’s the spiritual significance of the facial besmirching?

I would like to offer a brief three-fold reflection on that question. And though my methodology may smack of gimmickry, for the sake of simplicity and easy recall, I will utilize the three letters of the word ASH—A, S, and H—as an acronym for my three-fold response.

Why do we wear the ashes? My three-fold response is this:

1. We wear the ashes as a sign of our Acknowledgement.

2. We wear the ashes as a sign of our Subordination.

3. We wear the ashes as a sign of our Humility.

First, the ashes function as a sign of our acknowledgement. More specifically, when we wear the ashes in the right spirit, it indicates an inward acknowledgement of our sinfulness, our brokenness, and our neediness before God. The stain of the ashes, in other words, reminds us of the stain of our iniquity, thereby compelling us to acknowledge both the reality of our sin and the urgency of our need for the only One who can cleanse us of that sin.

Second, we wear the ashes as a sign of our subordination. The mark of the ashes indicates our willingness to be subordinated to the Lordship and the saving grace of Jesus Christ. In that sense, the ashes are a visible reminder to us that we are neither self-sufficient nor self-reliant. Rather, our salvation is dependent upon our willingness to be subordinated to the only One that can cleanse us of our stains.

Finally, we wear the ashes as a sign of our humility. One of the greatest obstacles to faithful discipleship is an idolatry of self or an exaggerated sense of self-importance. Don’t misunderstand me. In God’s eyes, each one of us is absolutely precious. The biblical witness is clear about that. But even though we are precious in God’s eyes, the salvation story does not center on us. Rather, the story centers on God and what God has accomplished both in us and for us.

In the orthodox Jewish faith, there is an important tradition. On their day of atonement, many orthodox Jews wear the garment in which they will one day be buried. They do this to humble themselves, and to remind themselves that they will one day return to dust. They do it to help themselves remember that the main character in their faith story is an eternal God, not any fragile human being.

On Ash Wednesday, we might not wear the garment in which we will one day be buried. But we do something similar. We wear the ashes to which we will one day return. We don’t do this to be morbid. We don’t do this to generate depression or despair. We do it to remember our place in the scheme of things. We do it to be humbled. We do it to remember that we are not the main character in the story of our life. God is.

I am praying that all of you will experience a blessed Ash Wednesday. May this day and night be a meaningful doorway into a transformational Lenten journey.

A pastoral colleague of mine made this comment recently:

I think that the institutional church is on the way out…How can it not be? The institution has become more interested in self-preservation than it is in the ministry of Jesus Christ.

Another colleague put it this way:

The United Methodist system often gets in the way of authentic ministry. When administrative processes become more important than reaching souls, we wind up becoming idolatrous about our denomination’s way of doing things.

Still another colleague offered these thoughts:

Our [United Methodist] general boards and agencies have become painfully out of touch with the ministry of our annual conferences. Our annual conferences have become painfully out of touch with the ministry of our local churches. And our local churches have become painfully out of touch with what’s going on in their communities. It’s time for us to let go of the institutional church and get back to the life-changing, heart-to-heart ministry that Jesus initiated.

I share these comments with you because of the way that they shed light upon an ecclesiastical trend that is at once both revelatory and troubling. The trend of which I speak can best be described as an eagerness to demonize the institutional.

I will acknowledge at the outset that, as a District Superintendent in the United Methodist tradition, the office that I occupy, in the eyes of many, is a primary cog in the institutional machinery that is in question. I am not blind to the complexity of this, nor am I naïve about the possibility of sounding unnecessarily defensive or self-preserving in a blog post like this one. Believe me, the institutional nature of my current ministry has become frighteningly clear to me over the last year.

First, allow me to offer a word of affirmation concerning the anti-institutional trend that I have described. At its best, this trend is a desperately-needed prophetic critique of structures, leadership, and administrative processes that must consistently be held accountable for their function. This is where the postmodern skepticism concerning anything that smells “institutional” serves the Body of Christ quite well. It is a skepticism that prevents us from bowing at the altar of any denomination’s polity.

Likewise, the anti-institutional trend helps the church to remember that the heart of ministry is not to be found in parliamentary procedure or in an elaborate meeting agenda or even in the successful completion of the year-end statistical reports (cue the whining!). Rather, as the anti-institutional trend makes clear, the heart of ministry is to be found in ever-deepening relationships; in feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, and caring for the marginalized; and in helping the lost to find their way home to Jesus Christ. If institutional components become stumbling blocks in the way of such ministry, then the anti-institutional trend is right on target: It’s time to dismantle the institution for the purpose of recovering the church’s true mission.

But, to be fair, allow me to point the critique in the other direction for a moment. Here is what troubles me about some of the manifestations of the anti-institutional trend:

First, in my experience (which is my only perspective concerning the issue), the critique of the institution is often voiced most loudly and most angrily by those who have become resentful of the way in which the institution has attempted to hold them accountable. Granted, there are certainly times in which institutional accountability feels like little more than jumping through vapid administrative hoops. On the other hand, institutional accountability, at its best, can become a communal means by which to keep people in proper alignment with the covenants by which they live.

Therefore, when offering a critique of the institutional church, it is imperative for the agent of the critique to be very attentive to his/her motives. A critique that emerges from clear and level-headed discernment can become a prophetic corrective. But a critique that emerges from resentment often ends up sounding more like an agenda-laden venting of one’s spleen.

Second, the anti-institutional trend is often much heavier on the critique than it is on meaningful solutions. If the United Methodist institution were to go away, for example, I would have to go and find a real job, to be sure. (Is anyone hiring, by the way?! Are there any comic book stores that need an extra employee?!) But what would remain in the absence of the existing ecclesiastical institution? How would the work of UMCOR continue in Haiti? How would people be encouraged and equipped to respond to a call to ministry? How would we support missions, local church food pantries and clothes closets, and the formation of meaningful curriculum? How would pastors be trained, sent, and appointed? Would we leave this all to individual inspiration and the formation of “house churches?” If so, what would be the institutional mechanism to connect individuals with ministries that would help them to invest in something that is bigger than their particular corner of the world?

In the current anti-institutional trend, quite frankly, I hear far more random criticism than I do helpful answers to these questions.

Third, the demonization of the institution often overlooks the fact that the concept of “institution,” in and of itself, is neither inherently evil nor necessarily contradictory to the ministry of Jesus Christ. The word “institution,” after all, is a derivative of the Latin “instituere” which means simply “to set up.” Setting up is a discipline that Jesus saw fit to embrace. In a sense, he “set up” (instituted) the disciples and their tasks. He set up (instituted) the Lord’s Supper. He set up (instituted) Peter as the “rock” upon which the church would be built.

And what about the church in the book of Acts? Many of the issues of the early church were issues of “setup”—institutional issues revolving around things like the relationship between Jews and Gentiles; the relationship between circumcision and uncircumcision; the relationship between staying put and being on the move. In order for the church to have been able to address these issues in Acts, it had to take itself seriously as an institutional reality. Which brings me to this point:

Realistically, I see no way to avoid the realities of administration, polity, and structure in the ministry of the church. They are inevitable portions of good stewardship of time and resources.

Let’s say that, in a fit of institutional angst, I am inspired to leave it all behind. “Hey United Methodist Church! I’m tired of your heavyhanded institutionalism! I’m going to blaze my own trail. I’m going to start a church in my living room, and I’m going to keep it small and focused and biblical and real. That is what God is calling me to do.”

How long do you think it would be before my living room church became an institution? How long would it be before the ten or fifteen people in my living room felt the need to become more efficiently organized in order to accomplish the ministry that God was calling them to accomplish?

My point is this: institutional church is an inevitable reality. It always has been. In fact, good ministry DEMANDS good institution (good setup). Therefore, in many ways, the anti-institutional trend is a protest against a reality that MUST exist, in one form or another. The real issue, then, is not whether we will have an institutional church. Of course we will. The real issue is whether or not the institution will be strategic and nimble enough to assist the church in accomplishing the ministry to which it is called. That is a different question altogether.

As I suggested earlier, some will no doubt dismiss this post as little more than the feeble rambling of a church bureaucrat defending the institution that he represents (towing the party line, if you will). I understand that. In that regard, I have no choice but to bear the symbols of the office that I am honored to occupy. But I’d like to think that I’m onto something here—something more than an undue fondness for the institution that pays my salary. I’d like to think that the United Methodist institution can still become a conduit through which the Holy Spirit makes its way into the nooks and crannies of the world to which the church has been called to minister.

Where the institution is outdated, out of touch, or out of whack, my prayer is that we will have the courage to recognize and name that—not because of a destructive eagerness to demonize, but because of a desire for the church to be at its best and its most faithful. Where the institution has caused harm to precious souls (shot its wounded, so to speak), my prayer is that the church will be sensitive enough to recognize and confess those moments of spiritual violence, so that the collective heart of the church will be deepened and softened.

In short, my prayer is that the church’s people will treat the church’s institutional nature, not as an enemy to be demonized, but as a portion of the church’s order that falls within the boundaries of God’s redemptive grace. If that happens, we might be inclined to see the institutional church as yet another segment of the “groaning and travailing creation” (Romans 8:22) that is yearning for the redemption into which God is leading it.

Perhaps this is naïve on my part. I hope not.

There’s a movie out these days called “Avatar.”

Perhaps you’ve heard of it!

Much of the conversation surrounding “Avatar” has focused on the brilliant filmmaking technology that it represents. Its mind-boggling financial success has also occupied many a Hollywood blog.

Beneath these more obvious layers of cinematic discourse, however, there is a conversation that interests me even more. It is a conversation about the film’s theology.

And make no mistake about it, “Avatar” presents a theological narrative that demands the attention of anyone who is willing to invest the time (2 hours and 37 minutes) and money (about 15 dollars) that the film requires.

It would be accurate, I think, to describe “Avatar’s” theology as a modified or at least nuanced pantheism that blends a nature-friendly scientific worldview with a willingness to assign a divine identity to the natural world. Pantheism (which literally means “God is all” or, perhaps more specifically, “all is God”) is not a new phenomenon. It finds its roots in ideas that were embraced by practitioners of pre-Christian Stoicism and Epicureanism—two philosophies that were vastly different in content but similar in their theological treatment of the natural world.

While pantheism has found a variety of expressions and proponents throughout its history, at the core of its message is the conviction that deity does not exist independently of nature. Rather, in pantheism, the Creator and the Creation are joined in the same kind of mystical and relational intimacy that Christians have always recognized in the relationship between Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

For the Christian, to speak of one person of the Trinity is also to speak of the other two persons, since, in Christian theology, the three persons of the Trinity are of one being, one essence, and one nature. In much the same way, for the pantheist, to speak of nature is to speak of the deity that created it (and vice versa), since, in the pantheistic worldview, Creator and Creation are joined together in one identity, one consciousness, one reality. A pantheist will approach nature, not as a product of God to be stewarded, but as a portion of God that is to be engaged in relationship.

New York Times’ columnist Ross Douthat has rightly observed (in this column) that “pantheism has been Hollywood’s religion of choice for a generation now.” Douthat maintains that pantheism was what “Kevin Costner discovered when he went dancing with wolves. It’s the metaphysic woven through Disney cartoons like ‘The Lion King’ and ‘Pocahontas.’ And it’s the dogma of George Lucas’s Jedi, whose mystical Force ‘surrounds us, penetrates us, and binds the galaxy together.’”

There are probably many different reasons for Hollywood’s fondness for pantheistic sensibilities, not the least of which is that pantheism does not require the naming of a particular deity (which makes it far more theologically palatable to Hollywood than what is often interpreted as a socially divisive Christocentrism). In fact, even atheist moviegoers can buy into pantheism, since, in one sense, the only kind of worship and rebirth that pantheism requires is a reverence for nature and the awakening of an environmentally-sensitive consciousness.

Pantheism, in other words, is seen as an acceptable spiritual common denominator in a theologically diverse culture. In the eyes of many, it brings profundity without dogma; transcendence without complicated sovereignty; revelation without painful conversion; theophany without prophetic demands. In the words of Ross Douthat, “Pantheism opens a path to numinous experience for people uncomfortable with the literal-mindedness of the monotheistic religions…For anyone who pines for transcendence but recoils at the idea of a demanding Almighty who interferes in human affairs, this is an ideal combination.”

It is not at all difficult to discern the pantheistic sensibilities and presuppositions that permeate the narrative of “Avatar.” The film, in many ways, gives expression to the idea that it is not religion that has to catch up to science and technology. Rather, according to “Avatar,” it is the other way around. Science and technology much catch up with (pantheistic) religion in order to be able to live within appropriate boundaries and understandings.

“Avatar” places before its audience a rich and colorful new world—the planet Pandora—the inhabitants of which (the Na’vi) live by a mystical pantheism that maintains that all life (plant and animal) is a part of the same “energy” that must be nurtured and one day given back to its source. The Na’vi’s most revered altar is the holy “Tree of Souls,” a natural sanctuary where the community gathers for sacred rites and special revelation.

At the heart of the Na’vi’s pantheism is a belief in the goddess Ewya, whose essence manifests itself in the oneness that exists between all living things and who is honored when all living things are in the appropriate relationship and balance with one another. As Neytiri (the film’s primary female Na’vi) puts it, “Our great mother Eywa does not take sides, she only protects the balance of life.”

The villain in “Avatar,” not surprisingly, is a corporation from earth that is interested in a precious resource that can only be mined on Pandora. With its technology and its militaristic methodology, the corporation, oblivious to the mystical oneness between the Na’vi and their natural surroundings, simply wants them to relocate so that they might exploit the land for their purposes. (Sound familiar?)

Interestingly, the scientific community that Earth has placed on Pandora begins to open its heart to the pantheistic realities preached by the Na’vi. Sigourney Weaver portrays Dr. Grace Augustine, a scientist whose name bears witness to her openness to further revelation. As the film moves toward its climax, Dr. Augustine offers a speech in which she reveals her conviction that the “primitive” Na’vi are actually onto something with their pantheism:

Those trees were sacred in a way you can’t imagine. I’m not talking about pagan voodoo here. I’m talking about something real and measurable in the biology of the forest. Alright, look — I don’t have the answers yet, I’m just now starting to even frame the questions. What we think we know is that there’s some kind of electrochemical communication between the roots of the trees. Like the synapses between neurons. Each tree has ten to the fourth connections to the trees around it, and there are ten to the twelfth trees on Pandora. That’s more connections than the human brain. You get it? It’s a network—a global network. And the Na’vi can access it—they can upload and download data and memories—at sites like the one you destroyed.

You need to wake up. The wealth of this world isn’t in the ground—it’s all around us. The Na’vi know that, and they’re fighting to defend it.

With that, the theological narrative of “Avatar” comes full circle. Science and religion join in the proclamation of a pantheistic reality in which nature and its inhabitants are connected in a theological symbiosis.

Critical to remember at this point is that the content of Old and New Testament Scripture (which, to be perfectly clear, is the content that I embrace and preach) does not give support to the pantheistic worldview. According to the Biblical narrative (from Genesis to Revelation), there has always been a distinct and revelatory separation between Creator and Creation. This separation exists, not for the purpose of communicating antipathy between the created order and its Source, but for the purpose of clarifying the identity of the One who creates. God the Creator, according to Scripture, is intimately related to the Creation (labeling it as good and going so far as to become incarnationally present in it), while at the same time maintaining transcendent authority over it (thereby guarding the integrity of his sovereignty).

The difference between pantheism and Christian theism lies in the definition of God’s position in the scheme of things. In pantheism, God, in an important sense, IS nature, so much so that to revere nature is to revere God him/herself. By contrast, Christian theism maintains that the person and identity of God exists independently of the natural order, thereby enabling God to be powerfully and redemptively at work WITHIN the natural order for the purpose of bringing all of creation to its intended state.

This difference between pantheism and Christian theology may also be described as the difference between PANTHEISM and PANENTHEISM. Pantheism maintains that all of nature IS God. By contrast, panENtheism (literally, “all in God”) maintains that, while God is separate from nature, all of nature is embraced by God’s scope and activity.

To suggest that all of nature is IN God is a proclamation that resonates in the worldview of Christian theism. Such panENtheism helps us to make sense of a biblical narrative that tells us that we are to steward the natural order and that all of creation is “groaning” for the redemption that God has provided in Jesus Christ. However, to suggest that God IS nature represents a distortion of the relationship between Creator and Creation that sets up a dangerous idolatry in humankind’s relationship with the created order.

Christian theists, therefore, must be prepared to recognize and name the pantheistic narrative by which “Avatar” operates. It need not prevent them from enjoying a spectacular film. But it behooves an audience to understand the theological import of the story it’s being told.

On the other hand, some are so eager to react negatively to what they consider to be the “green agenda” of the political left that they hastily and thoughtlessly demonize anything that smacks of environmental sensitivity. Some of these folks have weighed in on “Avatar” already, dismissing it as yet another product of a tree-hugging Hollywood.

Personally, I do not find such dismissiveness to be particularly helpful—or, for that matter, particularly Christian. The church, after all, has a long history of exploiting the created order. Much of this tendency toward exploitation is resultant of the church’s willingness to interpret the “dominion theology” of Genesis 1 as a Biblical license for an irresponsible domination of that which God has entrusted to the care of humankind. The effects of this exploitive domination are becoming clearer to us every day.

Given this reality, Christ-followers can ill-afford to be dismissive or arrogant concerning “Avatar’s” call to a deeper environmental sensitivity. While we may not agree with the way in which “Avatar” defines the relationship between the Almighty and nature, and while we might be a bit squeamish about the tenets of the Na’vi, we can and must find a right and prophetic message in the film’s call to an ever-deepening attentiveness to the environment and its care.

No one will walk away from “Avatar” with a clearer understanding of the way in which a sovereign God becomes incarnate through Jesus Christ and immanent through the work of the Holy Spirit. That is a Gospel that James Cameron simply will not preach. But his pantheistic “Avatar,” when interpreted through the filter of Scripture, becomes a powerful and richly-textured reminder to the Church that God takes the treatment of the natural world very, very personally.

That, in and of itself, is a beautiful and unsettling idea.

Keep up to date with the United Methodist Church’s relief efforts in Haiti here.

The above site also provides important information concerning making donations and preparing health kits.

On this Martin Luther King Day, I find myself contemplating where we are in our pursuit of Dr. King’s beautifully-articulated dream.

I recently heard a pastor offer what I think is a popular viewpoint concerning the issue of racism. I asked him for permission to share that viewpoint on my blog and assured him that I wouldn’t use his name so that his privacy would be protected. He said that he had no problem with that.

Here is the viewpoint:

“I don’t know why we keep making racism such an issue. Most of us have been delivered from racism. But when we keep making racism a point of focus (like we are in our annual conference with the “Dismantling Racism” priority), all we’re doing is beating a dead horse and highlighting a hugely negative thing that doesn’t deserve to be highlighted.”

Shortly after my conversation with that pastor, I heard the following comment made by a United Methodist church member, who also permitted me to share the comment in a blog post: “People have told me that they don’t want a colored pastor at our church. They’ve told me that they would leave if that kind of thing ever happened.”

Those two viewpoints help to illuminate the painful complexity of the issue of racism in the church. Racism is as real as it ever was, but we’re tired of hearing about it. A pastor’s ethnicity is still important enough to cause a parishioner to leave a church, but the last thing that we want to hear is someone highlighting the issue of racism. We prefer to think that we’ve been delivered from our racist impulses and presuppositions.

When contemplating this issue, my concern has to do with the simplistic way in which many of us define racism. I suppose that the American Heritage Dictionary’s definition of racism—“any form of discrimination based on race”—can be utilized as a bare minimum. But the kind of racism that is operative in the church is often far more elaborate and insidious than one-on-one discrimination. It is an institutional racism, often perpetuated by the structures and processes that many within the denomination are reluctant to change or even acknowledge. These structures and processes are often undergirded by an ethos of what might be called “white privilege” which is, in its essence, a desire to preserve the status quo because the status quo guards and protects the privileges of the race in power.

Of course, what is most frustrating about white privilege is that most of us don’t even recognize when it is in operation. For example, here I am, a white male, waxing eloquent on matters of racial diversity. But what do I really know about it? What is there about my comfortable suburban life that would inspire me to believe that I could somehow “educate” a group of readers who, I assume, are predominantly white? It would be foolhardy of me to assume that white privilege does not figure prominently in every segment of my living, even in the motivation behind this blog post.

When one begins to take seriously a racism emerging from white privilege, one is compelled to move beyond defensive rhetoric like this:

“Hey, those black folks are just as racist as I am.”

Or this:

“Black people need to stop playing the race card in every situation, because nobody wants to hear that anymore. After all, I never owned any slaves. It’s time to get over the past.”

The danger of this kind of rhetoric is that it overlooks or, at the very least, oversimplifies the complex and institutional dynamics of racism. Moreover, such rhetoric often causes one to ignore completely the most crippling racism of all—specifically, the kind of racism that can only be generated and perpetuated by people in power.

I have no easy answers in the midst of all of this. But this much is certain: The current emphasis placed upon dismantling racism is, first and foremost, one of the many consequences of the sin of racism and the fervency with which that sin has been perpetuated by white America. The aftermath of this particular sin is an environment in which Christ-followers will have no choice but to be creatively and prayerfully patient with the messy tensions that often exist related to this issue: tensions over how to create ethnically and culturally diverse communities of faith; tensions over the fact that there are so few ethnic minority clergy in the Western Pennsylvania Annual Conference; tensions between those who see racism as an ongoing problem and those who simply want people of color to “get over it;” tensions over what it means to have a church that makes tangible its belief that “red and yellow, black and white—all are precious in His sight.”

These tensions are not going away any time soon, nor should they. They are tensions emerging from the unsettling presence of a Holy Spirit who stubbornly refuses to allow a church to settle for being less than what it has been called by its Savior to be.

Personally, in my life and ministry, I want to guard against the desire to oversimplify these tensions (since such oversimplifications would often be the byproducts of the condition of white privilege in which I live and move). I want to live into an ever-deepening sensitivity to the sin of racism and all of its manifestations. Even more importantly, I want to lead by repentance. I want to name and confess all the different ways in which I have perpetuated the kind of racist presuppositions and patterns of behavior that have simultaneously fortified my sense of white privilege and broken the heart of God.

Yesterday’s catastrophic earthquake in Haiti has me thinking once again about the reality of human suffering.

Throughout my ministry, I have often heard people give expression to a profound and ultimately unanswerable question in the midst of their experiences of suffering:

Why?

“My child has been diagnosed with inoperable cancer. Why would a loving God permit such a cruel reality?”

“People in the village that I visited in Africa are so poor that, every morning, parents there have to choose which of their children will get food that day. I don’t understand why God would tolerate that kind of hunger for so long.”

“I trusted my husband completely, but he shattered my life by telling me that he doesn’t love me anymore and running off with someone else. Why would God permit me to fall in love with a person who would cause me such pain in the long run?”

I am sure that all of you could add your own personal conversations to this list.

Today, while standing in line at Starbucks, I overheard a new expression of the “why” question. It went like this: “These people who talk about God and praying…I just don’t get it. If there is a God worth praying to, then he wouldn’t permit thousands of Haitians to die in a 48-second earthquake. Why would a good deity allow that kind of widespread tragedy?”

In my own arrogance, I long to be able to answer the “why” question in a way that is succinct, poignant, and reassuring, thereby impressing people with my theological acumen while at the same time putting people back on the right theological track. I long to be able to fit human suffering into a concise theological equation that validates the comforting axiom that everything happens for a reason. The fact of the matter, however, is that this humble preacher is as ill-equipped to answer the “why” question as anybody else in the world.

The narrative that I preach, after all—the Scripture of the Old and New Testaments—never provides its readers with a detailed theodicean apologetic. In the Old Testament, for example, the man named Job never receives an answer to his impassioned “why” in the midst of his hardship. The man named Abraham is never pacified with an explanation of the divine mandate to sacrifice his son (a mandate that is eventually rescinded, but not forgotten). In the New Testament, Jesus offers to us no elaborate explanation of why poverty exists, why leprosy seems to have the upper hand, or why the journey to salvation must include a sickening cross.

All that Scripture offers to us concerning our “why” questions is a cryptic affirmation that God’s thoughts are not our thoughts and that God’s ways are not our ways (Isaiah 55:8), which can hardly be described as a satisfactory explanation for a cancer diagnosis or a Haitian earthquake.

And yet, while Scripture stubbornly refuses to answer the “why” questions related to human suffering, Scripture does place before us the strangely unsettling image of a weeping and suffering Christ. We find him weeping over the sin and brokenness of Jerusalem. We find him weeping over the death of his dear friend Lazarus. We find him breaking and bleeding on that Roman instrument of death called the cross.

Such images are significantly more than theological masochism designed to titillate the sensibilities of future generations. Rather, if we believe that Jesus represents the fullness of God’s self-disclosure (and I do), then the image of a weeping and suffering Christ is nothing less than a stark and worldview-altering revelation of the very character of God. To put it in the simplest of terms, if Jesus represents the fullness of God’s self-disclosure, then a weeping and suffering Christ means a weeping and suffering God.

Not a God who remains at a safe observational distance, orchestrating and micromanaging human suffering for the purpose of testing our mettle. Not a stoic God who refuses to be moved by the tragic segments of the human pilgrimage. Not a coldhearted and emotionally hardened deity who capriciously dispenses rewards and punishments—“Here, let’s see how those Haitian people deal with this!”

Not that kind of God.

Instead, the blood and tears of Christ bear witness to a God who is so thoroughly invested in humankind’s journey that the divine heart actually has the capacity to break to the point of weeping; a God who has poured himself so thoroughly into the human condition that he cannot prevent himself from breaking where we break, bleeding where we bleed, weeping where we weep; a God who loves us with such a wild and profligate love that he takes every portion of human suffering personally, receiving it into himself in such a way that human and divine teardrops commingle in a mind-boggling relational intimacy.

And, according to Scripture, that’s not even the best part.

The best part is that God refuses to allow death and suffering to have the final word to speak. When the weeping is finished, when God and the people of God have wept for long enough, God goes to work in transformationally redemptive fashion, thereby ensuring that the weeping gives way to resurrection.

I probably don’t have to tell you that Scripture is replete with resurrectional experiences: the people of Israel finding new hope and new life in their Egyptian captivity; Lazarus coming forth; the church in Acts moving from Stephen’s martyrdom to newfound evangelical fervor; Jesus of Nazareth walking out of a tomb that could not contain him. When we dare to move beneath the surface level of these resurrectional experiences, we find the beating heart of a God who seems to specialize in bringing new life out of certain death—a God who loves to grab hold of despair for the purpose of transforming it into hope; who loves to grab hold of tragedy for the purpose of transforming it into an opportunity for sacrificial ministry; who loves to grab hold of brokenness for the purpose of initiating a powerful movement toward wholeness.

None of this, of course, implies a twisted system of cause and effect. That is to say, we need not believe that God’s way is to CAUSE an earthquake as a means to some redemptive end. Such a methodology would make no theological sense to the heart of a God who weeps so easily and deeply.

But, in the mysterious and often inexplicable progression of the human journey, when a tragedy does occur, our comfort and hope are to be found, not in the answering of the “why” question, but in the revealed nature of our weeping and resurrecting God, whose intimacy and vulnerability enable him to weep and whose creative grace enables him to redeem and resurrect.

Please do not interpret this post as a theological sidestep. Believe me, I would still like to have an answer to the “why” question in the aftermath of Tuesday’s earthquake in Haiti. But, in light of the fact that the “why” of such an earthquake is nothing short of inscrutable, I am compelled to consider the possibility that the more significant and urgent question to ponder is “where?” More specifically, where is God when a catastrophic earthquake occurs and when hundreds of thousands of lives are suddenly lost? That is a question that we CAN answer, and the answer is this:

God is right there, in the heart of Port-au-Prince and the surrounding towns. God is right there, in the thick of it all, feeling the pain of every death, sharing the pain of every tear. Because that is who God is. Intimate. Personal. Vulnerable. Emotional. Incarnational. Wounded. Crucified.

And, when the weeping stops for a while, God will still be right there, gradually but steadily leading a devastated people into a new season of hope and redemption—leading people out of death into new life.

That, too, is who God is.

For most of my childhood and youth, there were three pets in my house. Or, perhaps more accurately, for most of my childhood and youth, there were three pets that permitted the rest of us to dwell in their domain. One dog and two cats. The dog’s name was Jiggers. He was part Toy Terrier and part Pekingese. One of the cats was Siamese. Her name was Wing Wong. The other cat, Muffy, was a tabby.

Jiggers. Muffy. and Wing Wong. It still feels very natural to me to say their names.

The three animals got along pretty well. In fact, they would even sample one another’s food periodically. But every once in a while, if Jiggers the dog became a bit too aggressive in his playtime with the cats, one of the cats would turn toward him and hiss. Whenever that happened, Jiggers, the mighty dog, the fearsome hound, would turn around and run away with his tail between his legs.

No matter how many times it happened, that moment would always fascinate me. It seemed humorously and ridiculously out of order. Dogs were supposed to scare cats. It wasn’t supposed to be the other way around.

We tend to pay particular attention in those moments, don’t we—those moments in which things are out of order? When a cat chases a dog out of a room, we chuckle at the role reversal. When a young child puts her hands on her hips and corrects a parent—“Mommie, you shouldn’t be saying that bad word”—we find humor in the transfer of authority. When a student corrects a teacher’s mistake—“Uh, Mrs. Smith, the correct answer is 14 not 16”—the entire class enjoys the sudden pedagogical shift. We tend to pay uncommonly close attention during those moments in which things and relationships seem to be out of order.

Perhaps that is why the story of Jesus’ baptism has always captured my attention in a very particular fashion. Perhaps I’m intrigued by the story because it places before us a situation that is clearly out of order. Jesus, the Son of God, the incarnation of God’s very heart, comes to John (commonly known as John the Baptist) in order to be baptized in the river Jordan.

According to the Gospel of Matthew’s description of the event (which has always been my favorite description, even though it is not a part of this year’s lectionary), John himself senses that Jesus’ presence before him is out of order. After all, the baptism that John offered was a baptism of repentance, meaning that people would come to him for baptism only when they were ready to turn away from their sin. Why would Jesus, God’s messiah, God’s chosen one, connect himself to such a blatantly human practice?

It is interesting that, in Matthew’s Gospel (Matthew 3:13-17), we are told that John would have prevented Jesus from being baptized: “No, Jesus, this is wrong. This is out of order. This isn’t how it should be. You are God’s Messiah. You are God’s Christ. YOU should be baptizing ME, not the other way around.”

Jesus’ response is significant. “John, let it be this way. Let it be out of order. Because my baptism will fulfill all righteousness.”

What does Jesus mean by that, do you think? “My baptism will fulfill all righteousness.”

In Matthew’s Gospel, righteousness normally means accomplishing the will of God. Therefore, when Jesus says that his baptism will fulfill all righteousness, he may very well be telling John that his baptism will accomplish or bring to fruition God’s perfect will. And why would it be God’s will for Jesus to be baptized? Perhaps because, by allowing himself to be baptized, Jesus creates a public solidarity and oneness with the very people he came into the world to save. By allowing himself to be baptized, in other words, Jesus is making clear to John and the people that he is willing to enter the very same water that they are occupying. He is willing to connect himself to human sin through the water of baptism.

Is God pleased with this moment of baptism? Apparently so. I say that because, during the baptism, something happens. Something supernatural. Something revelatory. Jesus discerns that the heavens have opened. Jesus discerns that God’s Holy Spirit has descended upon him and anointed him. And Jesus discerns the voice of God, whispering a parental word of affirmation: “This is my beloved Son with whom I am well pleased.”

I wonder how many parents have thought the same kind of thing during the baptism of their son or daughter? “This is my beloved child with whom I am well pleased.”

It is an out of order moment. John the Baptist knows that. But according to Jesus, it is God’s will for him to subordinate himself to the water of John’s ministry. “John let it be this way, let it be out of order. Because my baptism will fulfill all righteousness. My baptism will accomplish the will of God. My baptism will make tangible the incarnational solidarity with the Divine that my ministry represents.”

I invite you to consider a possibility. Consider the possibility that we, like John the Baptist, actually have the wherewithal to baptize Jesus all over again. This, of course, is not an effort on my part to minimize or distort the foundational baptism that only Jesus can offer. But perhaps the baptism that we experience in Christ is first received from him and then offered back to him in response.

As people who carry on with the ministry of John, preparing the way for Jesus’ coming and heralding his arrival, perhaps we, like John, actually have the spiritual capacity to offer back to Jesus the ministry of baptism. Only, instead of baptizing Jesus with water as John did, perhaps we have the opportunity to baptize Jesus with the outpouring of our ministry and our discipleship.

Nineteen years ago, I officiated at my very first adult baptism. The one baptized was a 67-year-old woman who had been a woman of faith for many years. Somehow, however, she had missed the sacrament of baptism. Her parents had not pursued baptism for her when she was an infant, and, although she had come to a rich and vibrant faith in Christ, she had simply put off the sacrament. In fact she had put it off for so long that people stopped asking her about it. But it never stopped troubling her that she had not experienced the baptismal water.

And so, at the age of 67, Lottie Cavanaugh came under the water of baptism, and I had the honor of officiating.

Following that worship service, I asked Lottie what she was going to do now that she was a baptized believer. This was her response: “Jesus baptized me with his grace,” she said, “and now I’m going to baptize him right back.”

“Lottie, I’m not sure what you mean by that. What do you mean you’re going to ‘baptize Jesus right back?’”

“That’s how I look at it,” she said. “It’s like this: I look at my life as a pitcher of water. And what I’m telling you is that I want to pour that pitcher all over Jesus so that he can be drenched with my outpoured life.”

Lottie was a bit of a poet—and perhaps a bit of a sacramental theologian.

If I truly believed that I have the wherewithal to baptize the Lord Jesus afresh with the spiritual water of my outpoured love and compassion and mercy, I wonder how it would impact the way I treat people. I wonder how it would change the way I looked upon my possessions and my financial resources. I wonder how it would affect the way I worship and commune with other believers. I wonder how it would deepen the way I live out my discipleship.

It seems out of order, doesn’t it, that we would have the opportunity to baptize Jesus (the very One who baptizes us in grace)? And yet, as John discovered, such an “out of order” experience may very well be a portion of the fulfillment of all righteousness.

I have been intrigued by existentialist thought ever since my college years when I was exposed to the writings of its proponents.

Although it has found a variety of diverse expressions (which makes it difficult to define in succinct fashion), existentialism, as a system of thought, places the focus on the existence of the individual person as a free moral agent. Existentialism further maintains that one’s existence is essentially a personal journey of self-understanding and self-realization in which the individual person is called upon to respond to a wide variety of experiences, emotions, relationships, and circumstances. Such an emphasis upon individual and experiential existence places existentialism in stark contrast with rationalism (which locates all truth in the realm of the intellectual and deductive) and empiricism (which locates all truth in the realm of the tangibly discernable).

Existentialism stresses that one’s EXISTENCE precedes one’s ESSENCE, meaning that one’s essence is not a predetermined reality. Rather, according to existentialist thought, one’s essence is formed by the decisions, priorities, and actions of one’s individual pilgrimage (or existence).

My favorite existentialist thinker is Soren Kierkegaard (1813-1855), who, as a Christ-follower, brought to existentialism a uniquely Christocentric focus. In his classic book, “Either/Or,” Kierkegaard offers an observation that has haunted me for years—one that captures the existential lostness from which, according to Kierkegaard, all of us are longing to be delivered:

This is what is sad when one contemplates human life, that so many live out their lives in quiet lostness…they live, as it were, away from themselves and vanish like shadows. Their immortal souls are blown away, and they are not disquieted by the question of its immortality, because they are already disintegrated before they die.
(from “Either/Or,” vol. 2, “Balance Between Esthetic and Ethical”)

Kierkegaard’s description of this existential lostness is inseparably connected to his soteriology (his doctrine of salvation). For Kierkegaard, as a Christian existentialist, being lost means being separated from our authentic selves in such a way that we “vanish like shadows.” Likewise, for Kierkegaard, being “saved” means making the decisions and engaging in the actions that will enable us to become authentically ourselves (authentically, in other words, who we were created to be).

Why am I raising the issue of existentialist thought in the middle of a mild-mannered blog post? Simply because I just watched what can only be described as an existentialist film, one that sheds important light upon one man’s existential crisis and subsequent search for meaning.

The film I am describing is “Up in the Air,” director and co-writer Jason Reitman’s clever and insightful cinematic treatment of one man’s discovery of his own lostness. The film features George Clooney portraying Ryan Bingham, a well-paid and well-traveled corporate hatchet man who has made a career out of informing people that they are fired.

The problem is that the difficult responsibilities of his career have forced Bingham into an isolated existence (one that he has protected for years with casual sex, alienated relationships, and an excessive pattern of traveling that prevents him from having to stay in one place for too long). Left unanswered is this compelling question: Did Bingham became a corporate hatchet man because of his proclivity to social isolation, or did he become socially isolated because of his career? The moviegoer is left to formulate his or her own conclusions concerning the order of this existential progression.

Three factors compel Bingham to question everything that his life has become. First, his company discovers that people can be fired much more cheaply via the medium of online conferencing, meaning that Bingham’s weekly traveling (a key component of his identity) is no longer a necessity. Second, Bingham develops a reluctant friendship with Natalie Keener (played by Anna Kendrick), an aspiring corporate climber whose cold-hearted ambition unsettles Bingham and compels him to reflect upon his own priorities and motivations. Third, much to his dismay, Bingham begins to experience an emotional connection (and subsequent vulnerability) in his relationship with the striking Alex Goran (brought to vibrant life by Vera Farmiga), another frequent traveler who awakens Bingham to the emotional depths that his life choices have prevented him from experiencing.

In the early portion of the film, Bingham’s favorite and foundational image is the image of an empty backpack, which serves as a metaphor for the unencumbered and emotionally streamlined life that he thinks he wants. As the film progresses, however, Bingham’s “empty backpack” becomes as oppressive as Jacob Marley’s chain. He begins to realize that the weight of emptiness is far more crippling and debilitating than the weight of authentic intimacy.

But can one make an existential change in the middle of one’s life? Will a backpack that has been shaped by its emptiness be able to accommodate the accumulation of unfamiliar baggage? Will the people and circumstances in one’s life permit such a conversion? And will it last? These are the important questions that “Up in the Air” addresses. As a title, “Up in the Air” describes, not only the extensive traveling of the main character, but the uncertain status of his existential pilgrimage.

After seeing the film, I find myself examining the content of my own backpack. What relationships are in there? What vocational decisions? What hopes and dreams and prayers? What regrets and failures? Which heavy items in the backpack are authentically mine to carry, and which items do I keep in there because of my stubborn refusal to throw them away? Is my backpack as meaningfully filled as it could be, or is it cluttered and poorly packed? Do I utilize my backpack for the purpose of traveling to redemptive places, or do I utilize it for the purpose of running away?

These are the existential questions in which I am living today. They are questions that pave the way from Kierkegaard to Clooney, from philosophical exploration to cinematic realism. Most importantly, they are questions that demand the attention of anyone who longs to be truly self-aware and self-actualized, which is the goal, not only of the existentialist, but the holistic Christ-follower.

Christmas morning of 1974 holds a special place in my memory. On that morning, as a seven-year-old boy, I received a Christmas present that signified an advancement in toy-making about which I was very excited. It was a Christmas present that I was convinced would change the landscape of my personal playtime.

The Christmas present to which I am making reference is G.I. Joe with Kung Fu grip.

If you were born after 1980, my reference to “Kung Fu Grip G.I. Joe” will probably not mean anything to you. But if you lived through the mystical and whimsical decade of the 1970’s, then perhaps you recall the evolution that I am describing. Back in the 1970’s, long before the movement toward the miniaturization of children’s action figures, G.I. Joe was a hard plastic doll, about 12 inches tall—sort of like Barbie but with a beard and military equipment.

Although fierce looking and fun to play with, G.I. Joe was plagued by severe functional limitations. The hard plastic of which he was made was not at all pliable, which made it impossible for him to hold on to anything with any degree of security (which, as you might imagine, significantly hindered his tactical ability). But in 1974, the problem was creatively rectified. All the commercials talked about it. G.I. Joe was now equipped with a Kung Fu grip—large, pliable rubber hands attached to his hard plastic body. Did it look unrealistic in the commercial? Of course it did. But the cosmetic issues were far outweighed by the prospect of G.I. Joe being able to grab hold of the clothesline in the back yard!

On Christmas morning 1974, “Kung Fu Grip G.I. Joe” found his way to that very special place beneath my family Christmas tree. When I opened the present and saw those plastic blue eyes looking back at me, and when I glanced downward to verify the existence of his disproportionate kung fu grip hands, I was instantaneously brought into a condition of Christmas morning euphoria. I played with “Kung Fu Grip G.I. Joe” all morning long.

Utilizing his kung fu grip that morning, G.I. Joe found himself suspended from Christmas tree branches and extension cords and even the belt of my father’s bathrobe. It was a great day of kung fu grip playtime! Then, playtime came to an end with my mother’s announcement: “Eric, time to get a shower and get dressed. We’re going to travel to Pittsburgh so that we can have Christmas dinner with your Aunt Mary Jane and the rest of the family.”

“OK, Mom.”

I laid “Kung Fu Grip G.I. Joe” under the Christmas tree, proceeded to get ready, and then off we went for the family Christmas celebration. What we didn’t know at the time was that our relatively new family dog, whose name was Jiggers, had a fondness for mischief. More specifically, Jiggers was a chewer, and, as we would soon discover, he seemed to enjoy sinking his teeth into anything made of wood, plastic, or rubber.

Well, to make a long story short (as if that’s even possible at this point!), when we arrived back home on Christmas night, all that was left of “Kung Fu Grip G.I. Joe” was a plastic torso, riddled with doggie teeth marks. In fact, we didn’t find some of his plastic body parts until the next day in the back yard (if you know what I mean!). Suffice it to say that the newly developed kung fu grip didn’t help G.I. Joe one bit in his fight with Jiggers.

When I saw the freshly devoured G.I. Joe doll on the living room floor, I was furious. I stormed up to my bedroom and cried. To this day, I remember the angry and bitter lament that I whispered through my tears. “I am never traveling on Christmas day again! I don’t care where our family lives! Bad things happen when we leave the toys alone in the house! I mean it—I am NEVER traveling on Christmas day again!” It was a moment of childhood angst and revelation—a moment in which I learned that traveling on Christmas day is not without its logistical challenges and pitfalls.

But I don’t really have to tell that to any of you, do I? You are already well aware of the logistical challenges of traveling around Christmas time. In fact, one of the most important organizational questions that families and friends contemplate each and every Christmas is precisely this: Who’s going to do the traveling? Are we going to Mom and Dad’s house, or are they coming here? Are we going to grandma’s in the afternoon, or is someone going to pick grandma up so that she can come here? Are we staying overnight, or is it just a day trip? When do we leave? When do we come back? What do we have to pack? Do we have all the Christmas gifts?

Who’s going to do the traveling?

Much of the rhythm and content of our Christmas celebration is dictated by our response to that question. There are cooking and cleaning implications. There are issues of travel time to be contemplated. There are delicate family politics to be pondered (i.e., if I go to spend time with this family member on Christmas, will this other family member be offended that we didn’t travel to his house or her house?).

In the midst of these complex logistical questions, there have probably been times when all of us have articulated a viewpoint that was something like the viewpoint I articulated back in 1974, when my devoured G.I. Joe doll inspired me to mutter these words: “I am NEVER traveling on Christmas day again!”

Today, on Christmas Eve, the vocabulary of Christmas traveling is very much on my heart. I find it to be a vocabulary that illuminates some of the mystery and majesty of what transpired on that first Christmas night, 2000 years ago.

In the Gospel of Matthew, an angel tells Joseph that the name of the child born to Mary shall be Jesus, and that he shall be called EMMANUEL which is a word that means, “God with us,” or, perhaps more specifically, “a God who has traveled to be with us.”

Then, in the Gospel of Luke, an angel appears to the shepherds on that first Christmas night. “Do not be afraid,” the angel says to the shepherds, “for I bring to you good news of great joy to all the people. To you is born this day in the city of David a Savior who is Christ the Lord.” The angel’s message to the shepherds, essentially, is that God has done some significant traveling. God has made the journey into human skin and can be found in Bethlehem as a vulnerable baby in swaddling clothes.

The Christmas message, you see, delivered initially by the angels, is a message about traveling. It is a message about God’s merciful itinerary. It is a message about a heavenly Father who recognizes our inability to reach him and who, therefore, made the decision to travel for the purpose of reaching us. “To you is born this day in the city of David a Savior who is Christ the Lord. His name shall be Jesus, and he shall be called EMMANUEL, which is a word that means, ‘God has done the traveling.’”

Today, I ask you not to burden yourself with the task of attempting to comprehend all of the scientific specifics of how it is that a sovereign God travels into human skin. Resist the temptation to lose yourself in the kind of analytical mindset that would reduce the mystery and profundity of the birth of Jesus Christ to nothing more than a theological equation or a spiritual formula. Instead, make peace with the fact—and beyond that, CELEBRATE the fact—that something occurred on that first Christmas that is well beyond the boundaries of human comprehension. Somehow, in the mystery of gracious divinity, the God of the Ages traveled from eternity to the present moment; traveled from a heavenly throne to a Bethlehem manger; traveled from heavenly adornment to human skin.

Why would God make that kind of trip? Scripture would have us to believe that God made the trip simply because God loves us that much. “In fact,” God proclaims “I love you so much that I am willing to do the traveling. I am willing to come to you in Christ, because I know that you cannot come to me. And I refuse to allow your sin to keep us apart. I refuse to allow the alienation of your disobedience to prevent us from being in right relationship. Therefore, I will do the traveling, thereby bridging the chasm between us that you on your own are not able to bridge.”

Many if not all of the other world religions place the emphasis upon the kind of spiritual traveling that WE might do to reach GOD. Christianity is unique in that regard. Christianity places the emphasis upon the traveling that GOD has done to reach US.

Ponder for just a moment what it meant for God to make the trip into human skin. It meant that God in Christ willingly entered into the messiness and the fragileness of the human condition, with all of its cuts and its bruises, with all of its aches and pains, with all of its sins and its blemishes. “You cannot come to me,” God essentially said to us, “and so I will come to you. I will do the traveling. I will experience childhood with you and the mishaps that can occur in the experience of growing toward adulthood. I will break with you and bleed with you and breathe your air and experience your journey. And, when the time comes, I will die on the cross for you, thereby taking into myself the sins of the world.”

Such is the language and the imagery of a God who is willing to do the traveling for our sake. I don’t know how you feel about that kind of God, a God who traveled from eternal glory to the crude tangibility of a Bethlehem feeding trough.

Personally, I’m grateful that he saved us the trip.