The Politics of Jesus: Prophets, Poets and Peace

Luke 6:20-28; Micah 4:3-4

October 21, 2012

So, did you see the pictures of J Lo strutting her stuff in Azerbaijan? They accompanied a story in the Post last week about the ways that Western pop culture is challenging the conservative ruling mullahs in Iran.

I’m not going to claim that J Lo is what the politics of Jesus looks like in action, but I will say this: the politics of Jesus play out a lot more like a dance than they do like a drone attack, and during a political season in which being “tough on Iran” seems to be an important measurement of, well, of something in national politics it’s worth pausing to consider what really changes hearts and minds.

I put my money on the prophets and poets of peace well ahead of presidents and other politicians.

The politics of Jesus begins in the search for shalom, for the peace that the prophet Micah described in his poetry:

“They shall beat their swords into ploughshares,
   and their spears into pruning-hooks;
nation shall not lift up sword against nation,
   neither shall they learn war any more;
but they shall all sit under their own vines and under their own fig trees,
   and no one shall make them afraid” (Micah 4:3-4).

Last Sunday, I noted Walter Brueggemann’s observation that the prophets of ancient Israel were primarily odd and poetic voices who understood that the facts on the ground did not accord with the lofty rhetoric of the powers that be. In a national political season when any serious candidate must pay fealty to a notion of American exceptionalism that brooks no honest criticism, it’s worth pausing to listen for some odd and poetic voices who find the facts on the ground at least worthy of passing note even, and especially, when they might suggest that America has, well, some exceptional issues.

A politics of Jesus, in our American context, might resound in phrases such as this, from the great Langston Hughes:

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

Hughes invites us to consider a politics of love. Any politics of Jesus must be spoken in faith, hope and love, and it draws upon the rich well of poetic language in scripture and beyond. For example, such a politics looks to the Beatitudes, and rests on the deep conviction that these blessings are more than happy thoughts. They are, instead, deep and abiding challenges to the world as it is and invitation to the world that might yet be.

A politics of Jesus in our time would must recall Luke’s version of the Beatitudes, and remember that Luke includes woes along with his blessings, and thus inspires, perhaps, other odd and poetic voices deeply disturbed by the facts on the ground.

Wendell Berry wrote this poem in January, 1991, during the first Gulf War. Hardly a day has passed during the ensuing 21 years – the entire lifetime of my eldest child – when the words of this poem did not ring sadly true. Berry’s remains a singularly prophetic voice, and one that anyone pretending to articulate a politics of Jesus ought to study with care.

The year begins with war.

Our bombs fall day and night,

Hour after hour, by death

Abroad appeasing wrath,

Folly, and greed at home.

Upon our giddy tower

We’doversway the world.

Our hate comes down to kill

Those whom we do not see,

For we have given up

Our sight to those in power

And to machines, and now

Are blind to all the world.

This is a nation where

No lovely thing can last.

We trample, gouge, and blast;

The people leave the land;

The land flows to the sea.

Fine men and women die, the fine old houses fall,

The fine old trees come down:

Highway and shopping mall

Still guarantee the right

And liberty to be

A peaceful murderer,

A murderous worshipper,

A slender glutton, or

A healthy whore. Forgiving

No enemy, forgiven

By none, we live the death

Of liberty, become

What we have feared to be.[1]

Last week, on behalf of the National Committee of the Presbyterian Peace Fellowship, I drafted a letter to Governor Romney and President Obama calling on them to halt the lethal use of drones. We published that letter as followers of the nonviolent Jesus, but even as I put the words together I knew that I was operating much closer to the practices of politics as usual than to a disruptive politics of Jesus.

It is far too easy to ignore the voice of one crying out in the wilderness if that voice tries to sound like a policy insider.  One thing I have learned along the way is that politics as usual works just fine for powerful voices, but if voices from the margins wish to disrupt the way things are they have to speak on many levels at once.

Remember the AIDS quilt. No policy papers nor scientific studies changed as many hearts and minds as did the squares on that quilt. In the same way, the Shower of Stoles project has carried reminders to the church of the great violence done by the church to LGBT candidates for ministry, and of the great loss to the church. Those stoles have resounded far louder than all the good and great sermons on LGBT equality preached over the long years of struggle.

Sure, it’s important to articulate a position with clarity, and ground it in the best of one’s tradition. I still believe in the practice of preaching, and the drones letter I just mentioned lifts up the great Confession of 1967 with its call to the nations to pursue peace even at risk to national security. But to a significant extent, no matter what policy one urges, when one speaks in the language of position papers the structures of power remain fixed and unchallenged.

If, as I suggested last week, a politics of Jesus begins in liturgy, in worship, then perhaps the voice of nonviolence is heard most clearly when it sings. A politics of Jesus will also be sung.

“I’m gonna lay down my sword and shield, down by the riverside … ain’t gonna study war no more.

“I’m gonna shake hands around the world, down by the riverside … ain’t gonna study war no more.

“I’m gonna walk with the Prince of Peace, down by the riverside … ain’t gonna study war no more.

We opened worship singing the old hymn, Crown Him with Many Crowns. That song ought to remind us of the uneasy relationship between the Prince of Peace and the princes of this world in every time and political context. “Crown him the Lord of Love,” is not a phrase that will show up any time soon on a bumper sticker of any candidate for public office. Yet that title, “Lord of love,” harkens back to the basic affirmation of Christian faith from the earliest church. That affirmation remains incredibly important to hear, to understand and to affirm in the present age: Christos Kurios, in the Greek, or Christ is Lord.

We don’t live in an age of lords, and, in fact neither did Jesus. He lived in an age of emperors, and the earliest affirmation of Christian faith was both subtly political and a remarkably subversive affront to the powers that ruled that world. For Caesar Kurios, or “Caesar is Lord,” was the basic oath of citizenship in Rome.

To say “Christ is Lord,” was to say to Rome, in essence, “you’re not the boss of me; Jesus is.” It was to say to Rome, you demand at the point of a sword allegiance to an empire of death forged in the blood of enemies defeated and killed, but I swear allegiance to the empire of the Lord of Life forged in the blood of one who risked the forgiveness of enemies, and called upon his followers to love those same enemies.

I’m not going to hold my breath waiting to hear any presidential candidate any time soon giving voice to forgiveness of enemies, much less exploring ways to demonstrate love of them, but any authentic politics of Jesus begins right there, in the longing for shalom and the determined, faithful, dancing, singing and praying work of building a culture of just and lasting peace. Let it be so for us, amen.

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[1] “The Years Begins In War,” in Wendell Berry, A Timbered Choir (Washington, DC: Counterpoint, 1998) 125-6.

The Politics of Jesus: Welcome Everyone

Isaiah 58; Matthew 5:1-12

October 15, 2012

Less than a month away from a contentious national election, it takes either a lot of gall or some mix of faith and hope to launch a sermon series entitled The Politics of Jesus. I reckon we’ll find out which part of the mix we’re in as we go along.

I have been moved to offer these reflections over the next several weeks not only by the political season we’re all obviously living through just now, but also by a whole bunch of mail I’ve received either virtually or in the mail box over the past few months.

It began toward the end of summer, when I got this piece from the self-proclaimed, “Watchman of the Midwest.” It reminds us that the nation whose God is the Lord is blessed, right after a 12-point list of “reasons not to vote for Barrack Hussein Obama.”

Then the Christian Century came in with Gov. Romney on the cover.

Then I got this invitation from the Centreville Baptist Church to a free “Answers in Genesis Creation Conference.” It is exactly what it sounds like it is, and if you don’t think it carries a political agenda then you probably ought to go back and read about the Scopes Monkey Trial.

And that is not to mention the news feed on Facebook or any other social media point of contact with the wider world.

So much of this stuff, in whatever form and from whatever perspective, reveals at least one common thread: they all point toward a politics of divide and, if not conquer, then at least divide and exclude.

Whether it’s coming from Left, Right or Center, that is not a politics of Jesus.

I’ll acknowledge up front that there are, and always have been, folks who do not believe that Jesus had anything to do with politics, and that, therefore, neither should the church. That perspective gets phrased lots of ways: don’t mix politics and religion; keep church and state separate; keep God out of the public square.

I always find it amusing that you hear the same thing from the Left and the Right depending upon whose political ox is being gored, or, perhaps, whose God is being used to justify or oppose whose policies.

It’s good to begin with a simple reminder: God is not a Republican. Or a Democrat.

But it’s equally important to begin with a second reminder: God is deeply concerned with the fate of the city, with the way that power is used and maintained, and, always, with the condition of the poor, the outcast, the marginalized and the victims of injustice.

Listen to these words, from the centerpiece of Isaiah 58, the chapter when God’s prophet calls the people to restore the city’s streets to live in:

Is not this the fast that I choose:
   to loose the bonds of injustice,
   to undo the thongs of the yoke,
to let the oppressed go free,
   and to break every yoke?
Is it not to share your bread with the hungry,
   and bring the homeless poor into your house?

Such an agenda is inherently political because it has to do with how power is exercised in the city – the very definition rooted in the Greek origins of the word politics.

Walter Brueggemann suggests that one legitimate perspective on the Bible is to take the whole thing, from Genesis to Revelation – as an extended meditation on the city, or, at least, on the Holy City of Jerusalem. He goes on, in the same way, to underscore the point that every city is holy.

The concerns of the city are always, fundamentally, political, and, therefore, God cares about our politics because God cares about the city.

The problem with our politics is that they are way too narrowly drawn. Most of us, most of the time, hear the word “politics” and immediately think “partisan, electoral politics.” We reduce politics to elections, and reduce discourse about politics to mere electioneering. That reductive process leaves us with perpetual campaigns standing in place of actual governance.

It is no wonder that the vast majority of us are completely turned off by the whole thing, and equally little wonder that a small minority of eligible voters – less than a third – will vote for the next president – whichever candidate prevails next month.

Personally, I think this is a bad thing. I am, and always have been, a small “d” democrat. I believe firmly that the more voices there are involved in the decision-making process of any group the better the decisions will be.

More to the point, I believe that any politics that would dare to mention Jesus at all must be an inclusive one because, duh, God cares about every one of us. So that’s a “politics of Jesus, 101” – it’s inclusive in terms of process and in terms of policy objectives.

That’s simple on the surface of it, but I want to push just a bit deeper. The words of Matthew and those of Isaiah guide us here, but not in any obvious way. Oh, to be sure, the Beatitudes remind us, as do Isaiah’s words, that God has a deep and decisive concern for the poor and the marginalized that comes first, prior to concern for those who are rich and powerful.

But more than the content of those words, their form is instructive; perhaps even decisive.

There are no policy papers, party platforms or powerful politicians here; instead of “politics as usual,” we get poetry as prophecy, we get prophecy as politics, and we discover that this is the work of the people.

We get this poetic politics when we attend to what Brueggemann calls “odd voices of discernment, mostly poets and unwelcome dissenters who had a sinking feeling in their gut. Here and there they found words that unnerved the city; because they offered a shrill reminder that even slick logos do not change or nullify the facts on the ground in the city.”[1]

Those voices continue to resound around us in our own time if we can turn down the political noise machine long enough to listen.

When Jesus engaged the powers and principalities of his age, he did so either in his own poetic voice or by appropriating the poetry of the prophets of his people, proclaiming that,

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives, and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”

That comes straight out of the poetry of Isaiah.

You will have recognized a moment ago when I mentioned “the work of the people.” Liturgy. Liturgy is poetry, it is prophecy, and it is, therefore, also politics. It may not be the totality of the politics of Jesus, but it is the heart and soul of it.

Whatever the politics of Jesus may be, in our moment and in our more traditional political language, it must begin in worship. In fact, it begins in baptism, when we welcome the newest members of the household of God. We welcome them without regard to race, sexuality, wealth or power. We simply welcome them, because God welcomes us.

And we anoint them, in the waters of baptism, to the same calling that Jesus claimed for himself: to bring good news to the poor, liberty to the captives, wholeness to the broken, equality to the oppressed, jubilee to the indebted.

Where you find this work going on among the people, you are drawing close to the politics of Jesus. And that is enough for a start. Amen.

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[1] Walter Brueggemann, Disruptive Grace (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2011), 101.

Prayers of the Righteous

Psalm 124; James 5:13-20

September 30, 2012

The author of the book of James makes it sound so simple. Suffering? Pray. Sick? Pray. Broken by your own sinfulness? Pray. Yard need some water? Pray.

Got questions – deep, abiding questions – about what prayer is, what it means, what it does? Well, the author of James doesn’t really go there. I’m tempted to answer for him with the simple instruction, pray.

If that answer, given without cynicism, works for you that’s great. Pray. Like Nike used to tell us: just do it! But that just doesn’t get it for me, and, I suspect, some of you want more than that as well.

When a loved one is seriously ill and the prayers of the faithful do not bring healing, then what? When the waters rise and, contrary to the witness of Psalm 124, the flood does sweep away people you know and love, what then of your prayers concerning the weather?

Or, more likely most of the time for most of us, when the ordinary, everyday vicissitudes of life roll over you like a rising, inevitable, irresistible tide, then what?

I was thinking about this last week in the context of our community life. Last Monday we posted our newly created Christian education position with great hopes and expectations of a more vibrant congregational life being born in our midst. A lot of prayers have been part of creating that job, and we continue to pray for the person that God will eventually call into the role.

Tuesday at the National Capital Presbytery meeting, we sang together from a sampler of the soon-to-be-published brand new Presbyterian hymnal. We sang with more great hopes and expectations of more vibrant worship lives across our broad church. Again, a lot of prayers went into creating the songs and the collection of songs that will be part of the prayer lives of millions of Presbyterians in the years to come.

We celebrated Sean and Christina’s marriage in worship yesterday and with it the promises of young lives setting out toward, one hopes, decades of adventure. We surrounded them with our prayers yesterday, and hold them in the light as their married life begins.

Today we celebrate and give thanks for the decades of faithful service that Evelyn Woodson – and her entire family – have given to this church, and bless her as she sets out toward the next adventure of her rich, long life. We lift Evelyn and her family in the light of our prayers this morning.

Next week we’ll celebrate World Communion Sunday, and be reminded in that service that we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses. We’ll also reunite in worship for one Sunday with the Church of the Covenant, a congregation that we gave birth to a half century ago. Talk about an opportunity for not only the Great Prayer of Thanksgiving, but for lots of prayers of thanksgiving.

The week after that, we’ll baptize another baby, and surround Nora and Jim and Sarah in our prayers.

What does all of that, and so much more the runs along similar everyday lines mean? After all, all of these grand adventures will end someday. That should not come as any great surprise. Someday, in God’s time, this congregation will almost certainly come to an end – churches do that. Someday we’ll replace these now old blue hymnals just as, a generation ago, they replaced the old red ones. Someday the one that comes next will be replaced. Someday, whoever we hire to be our first CE director will move on to something else, and, someday, that person, like each and every one of us, will die. After all is said and done, the demographic fact of the matter remains: the ratio of the birth rate to the death rate remains a constant: one to one.

All of this – jobs, churches, books, lives – all this shall one day pass away.

The question is not and never can be “will we die?” Rather, the question before us is always, “how shall we live?”

The suggestion from James is simply this: live prayerfully.

What does it mean to live prayerfully? First, it means to be awake. Don’t sleepwalk through your life, anesthetized to life’s rich unfolding. Be mindful.

Second, be awake also to the reality of that which is larger than yourself. Be awake to the presence of God, and, make sure it’s not a false god to whom you are awake. Oh, to be sure, there are dozens of false gods in our lives competing for our attention, or, sometimes, trying simply to lull us into mindlessness. Gods of mass consumption, massive power, mass distraction come to us in all sorts of beautiful and enticing packages, but when we bow before them we do so mindlessly and, therefore, not prayerfully nor even capable of prayer.

Authentic prayerful living is always mindful, awake, aware of the deepest parts of our own lives; aware of, connecting to, and mindful of the lives of others around us – all others; and aware of and mindful of the reality of God.

I believe that the text is saying to us pray that you might live. Not pray in order that you and your loved ones won’t die, or won’t face struggles, or won’t encounter deep brokenness, but rather, pray that you might live fully and completely into all of what life holds for you even life’s ending. Live prayerfully, then, that you might live at all.

Indeed, if we pray listening for God more than talking at God we might come to discover that some of the things we fear, and thus pray to avoid or to get through, are not as filled with fear as we imagined.

The apostle Paul invited his readers, famously, to “pray without ceasing.” What might that look like in practice? Let me slow down here on just that phrase: in practice.

For that is the key, ultimately, to living mindfully day by day throughout the days of our lives.

The way we live day to day is shaped and formed by practices. We shape our lives by how we spend our time, and if we spend some of it shaping our days with habits and rhythms that we know will open us to that which is holy, bit by bit, day by day, we reshape our whole lives. Such practices, as Bryan McClaren – and many others – insist, “transform us,” in McClaren’s words, “rewiring our brains, restoring our inner ecology, renovating our inner architecture, expanding our capacities.”

The author of James is inviting us into just such practice. He invites us to “take actions within our power that help us become capable of things currently beyond our power.”

The spirituality of prayer is, first and foremost – and, perhaps, last and always – simply about transforming ourselves and, thus, transforming the world around us. So, for example, if you find it difficult to be grateful when you are worn out, practice gratitude every day when you are fresh and energetic, and it will, in time, become the primary way you react to the world even when you are tired.

If you find it hard to be patient when you’re stressed, practice patience every day when you’re not under stress. In time, you will find, and be possessed by, wells of patience you did not know you possessed.

What does it mean to practice gratitude or patience? To a great degree it simply means being mindful and aware. Remembering, for example, to give thanks for all that you’ve been given, including the air you just inhaled: a gift from the Creator of the universe. Remembering, for example, to listen to the whole of the dream that your child is sharing before responding, or to the whole story your lover is telling of her afternoon before you respond, listening, that is to say, not in order to prepare a response but, simply, to understand.

There is way more that could be said about all of this, for there are so many more virtues we can practice. But for now, let’s end with this thought: the prayers of the righteous begin in listening for the prayers of God. The beginning of prayerful living comes when we start to listen, mindfully, step by step, breath by breath, through all the days of our lives for the prayers that come from the heart of the author of those days.

When we can begin – and it is never too late – when we can begin to live that way then we can find God, feel God’s presence, follow God’s calling to us, and rest in God’s love for us at every moment along our life’s journey whether we are bringing a baby to be baptized, preparing to move to another state, beginning a marriage, or walking life’s final steps. God loves you this moment, this day, and will for all days. The prayer of God is that each of us knows that simple truth. Amen.