God is not the king

The evangelical tradition – of which I am part – is vulnerable to narcissists because of the way in which we habitually misread Jesus’ parables.

Despite the fact that God tells Samuel that kings represent a rejection of God’s invitation to relationship with him;

despite the fact that kings are repeatedly recorded as rejecting God's ways and leading their people away from knowing him;

so that even the very few kings considered good are corrupted, to the extent that a direct parallel is drawn between David killing Uriah to take his wife and Ahab killing Naboth to take his vineyard;

despite Pharaoh;

despite the consistent testimony against kings of the nations by the prophets;

despite the fact that kings have John the baptizer, Jesus, and several of Jesus’ disciples put to death;

despite all this, whenever a king appears in a parable Jesus tells, evangelicals assume that the king represents God, and that the behaviour and actions of the king reveal God’s character.

They don’t. And for as long as we teach that they do – for as long as we perpetuate lazy and dangerous readings – we will be vulnerable to narcissists.

Jesus employs parables about kings in the context of his impending death at the hands of the authorities. These include a parable of a king who throws a banquet for his son, a stinging critique of the high priestly family of Annas and Caiaphas, in which Jesus prepares his disciples for his trial, complete with enlisted crowd, and execution outside the city wall. But this parable is routinely co-opted by evangelicals to show that God will punish those who do not show him deference with hell.

Jesus employs parables about kings to judge the kingdoms of the world. In one he presents a man of wealth who seeks the title king from an external source, in the face of a counter-delegation by those who know him; who distributes resources to ten servants (seven of whom we do not hear of again) rewarding success and punishing failure to accumulate for him dishonest gain. This accurately describes the way in which Herod the Great had come to power as a client-king of Rome, sought to secure succession for three sons, one of whom would have his land annexed by direct Roman rule. Or the way Tiberius, emperor at the time of Jesus’ public ministry and death, negotiated power, rewarded Germanicus with a full triumph for quelling rebellion, delegated rule in Rome to Sejanus while Tiberius removed himself to Capri to live a life of debauched indulgence, before having Sejanus executed for planning a coup. Or the way narcissists operate today. The parable is a warning against getting drawn into such ways – this is not the way of Jesus – and yet it is routinely co-opted by evangelicals to show that God will punish those who do not use the talents he gives them to his glory.

Jesus employs parables of kings to contrast the way of the world with the divine way. Asked by Peter how often we must forgive others, Jesus effectively says, there is no limit. He then goes on to tell a parable in which there is a limit - to highlight the contrast. A king who has been reckless with his fortune seeks to take back what he has given out. One of his slaves, who has done very well for himself by keeping close, is unable to repay him. The king makes a show of writing off the debt. However, the slave then goes out and demands repayment of a far smaller debt owed him by a fellow slave, and shows no mercy when it is not forthcoming. This causes such a scandal that it reflects badly on the king who had written off that slave’s debt. In effect, he asks, ‘This is how you repay me? Making me look foolish in public?’ The king has the servant cast out to rot in prison. This is classic narcissistic behaviour. It could be straight out of the Trump playbook – or the way in which narcissistic church leaders make people feel special before ghosting them or threatening to prevent their future prospects. And yet this parable is routinely co-opted by evangelicals to show that God will treat people this way – which justifies narcissistic behaviour.

I could go on. Teaching on persistence in the face of injustice, Jesus tells a parable of a widow who keeps coming to a judge. The judge has no regard for God or his neighbour – is the embodied antithesis of the commandments to love God and love your neighbour. Despite this, and despite the fact that it is the woman – who has no power except commitment to justice – who demonstrates persistence, evangelicals are more likely to see God as the judge (male, position of power) than the widow. But God is not found in the places we want to find God.

We need to do better. For a tradition that claims to honour the Bible, we need to go back to the texts. But the cognitive dissonance will be enormous.

  

Stone, part 2

 

The biographer Matthew doesn’t record a great many of Jesus’ parables of the kingdom of heaven (that is, what God’s delegated sovereignty looks like on earth). But when he does, he introduces them saying, “The kingdom of heaven is like...”

There are two exceptions, where Jesus begins, “The kingdom of heaven may be compared to...” In fact, it is the same root word, but used in a different way, to suggest comparison or to suggest that something ‘has become’ like something else. This is not a case of Matthew’s year four English teacher asking him to think of another word for ‘like.’ It indicates a qualitative difference. In both cases, the parable in question includes a king decreeing a punishment.

In chapter 22, Matthew records a parable in which Jesus describes what the kingdom of heaven has become, in contrast to what it is meant to be. A king throws a banquet for his son. None of the summoned guests comes. Note, this is not that most refuse, and a few take up the invitation. No one wants to be there, and, when pressed, even mount a violent insurrection, which is put down without mercy. Then, anyone who can be pressed to attend is so pressed. Not one is there except under duress. The king interrogates a man who has refused to put on the wedding gown, the symbol that he accepts the king’s patronage. The man is silent before his accuser. The king has him bound and taken outside the walls, to the place where there is weeping and bitter, futile anger.

This parable follows on from the one before, which is explicitly identified as a parable against the chief priests and rulers of the people. In other words, it is a continuation. The kingdom of heaven has become something indistinguishable from the violent kingdoms of the world, under the leadership of the politico-religious leaders.

As Matthew continues his biography, we will find Jesus dragged, against his will, into the presence of Annas and Caiaphas. Historically, the high priest was a position for life, but the Romans had changed that, appointing and removing whom they chose. Annas was a previous (and still considered to be) high priest, and his son Caiaphas the current high priest. A king and his son. Jesus is dragged into their courtyard, and interrogated. He refuses to answer, and is sent away, first to a similar interrogation before the Roman governor, where we also see a crowd dragged off the streets to ensure he is condemned. He is made to wear a ‘wedding’ gown, again against his will, and taken outside the city wall to the waste incinerator, and executed in the presence of his closest family and friends.

God is not violent against people. But, sadly, many devoutly religious people, especially religious leaders, are. The kingdom of heaven is, at times, turned into a travesty of what it is meant to be. The biographer Matthew tells us to expect this. But it is not the final word.

The lectionary for today pairs this parable with a passage from the prophet Ezekiel where the Lord God promises to remove from his people (whose actions have profaned God’s holy name before the watching world) their heart of stone and put within them a heart of flesh. Stone symbolises all the ways in which we divide between ‘us’ and ‘them,’ while flesh symbolises our common humanity.

Whether your heart is stone or flesh determines how you hear Jesus’ parables.

 

Stone

 

‘A new heart I will give you, and a new spirit I will put within you; and I will remove from your body the heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.’

the Lord God (Ezekiel 36.26)

Stone. In Old Testament Hebrew, this word is put to many uses. Precious stones, symbols of the way in which we give excessive abstract value to certain things, and, by extension, to those people who can afford them. Marble, to line the homes of the rich. Weights, and the false measures by which we exploit one another, and cheat the poor. Slingstones, as weapons; and iron ore extracted from the earth to make metal weapons. Hailstones, that destroy crops. Stone is a fitting symbol of the ways we ‘us’ and ‘them’ one another.

Flesh. Our mutual belonging to one another, and, by extension, to every living thing.

Today, teenagers in England, Wales and Northern Ireland receive exam results (those in Scotland have already received theirs) that reflect and reinforce the heart of stone. Lord, have mercy on us.

 

The kids

 

My son has friends round. They are so kind, thoughtful, generous and warm that I feel churlish giving them their own space. In fact, I wish more older people were like them. The kids are going to be just fine.

Young adults need cheerleaders, not detractors.

 

ADD

 

The Hail Mary prayer,
“Hail Mary, full of grace,
the Lord is with you.
Blessed are you among women,
and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
pray for us sinners
now and at the hour of our death.
Amen”

was surely penned by someone with Attention Deficit Disorder.

Because for someone with ADD, there is only ‘Now’ and ‘The Hour Of Our Death,’ that is, a point beyond later. Such that this thing must be attended to right now, or else it will not be turned to until the deadline is upon us and it is too late.

Without aid, there is no Setting Apart Time For This Tomorrow, or In Two Days’ Time, or Next Tuesday At 1.00 p.m. (Conversely, with aid, they can be incredibly creative.)

If you know someone with ADD, you might like to join Mary in praying for them now, which might also be one of the very frequent hours of their death...

 

gods

 

Who are your gods?

To clarify, by god I mean something beyond, and greater than, yourself, in which you put your hope and trust for salvation – that is, for healing; to make you well, or whole.

I am not aware of knowing any atheists (it is, quite simply, very hard to live that way in the world) (though I do know some who aspire to be atheists).

To be honest, I am not sure that I know any monotheists either (again) (and also).

There’s a story told of Moses’ apprentice and successor, Joshua, calling together the public figures of his community and putting a challenge to them: choose this day whom you will serve. Because we don’t only hope and trust in our gods, we invest our energy and entrust our resources to them. Or, to put it another way, we serve them.

The Market. The Nation, or the Land. Family. Our football team. Our addiction or distraction of choice. Church.

That story about Joshua is paired with a story about Jesus in the lectionary for this coming Sunday (Joshua 24.1-2a, 14-18 and John 6.56-69). Interestingly, Joshua and Jesus are the same name, rendered in two different languages, with a responsive meaning to cry out for help / to rescue or deliver or save. In the Jesus story, many of his would-be apprentices walk away, deciding that it is simply too difficult, too demanding, to apprentice under him. Jesus asks his core apprentices, Do you also wish to go away? Are you, also, desiring, intending, planning to gradually go on your own way? There is a sense of cost to this, an understanding that if to be with Jesus is difficult, then so is continuing on without him.

Peter (who is to Jesus as Joshua is to Moses) nails that dual sense of cost. Yes, it is costly to be your apprentice, but, to whom else would we turn? It is in apprenticing under you that we enter into and continue in a life of unparalleled quality. Anything else is a slow decline towards death, in comparison.

I’m pretty sure most people I know long for a deeper quality of life, one marked by greater freedom from the things that hold us captive, greater healing from the wounds those things have caused us. I’m not sure anyone who is, or who longs to be, healthy wants less quality of life (though, ironically, the path to greater quality of life involves less busyness and fewer things).

The question is, who are your gods?

 

Proof and evidence

 

What is the proof that you are waiting for?

There is no constructed instrument by which we can determine, no calibrated scale by which we can measure, courage. We can demonstrate the effect of the need for courage and of the act of courage on the body, but not the existence of courage. And yet we know that courage exists.

We know, each time we walk away from an abusive relationship. Each time we refuse to walk away from a relationship that is hard work and, at this moment in time, unrewarding. Each time we ask for forgiveness of another, or of ourselves.

Courage exists. There is plenty of evidence for this. The world is full of evidence.

And yet, there is no instrument, and no agreed scale. There is, of course, the court of public opinion. But the observer is not an especially reliable instrument or scale, for what requires much courage to one person requires little to the next. It requires courage of me to cross a bridge, something others do without it crossing their mind. Neither is the individual who has exercised courage especially reliable, for it is often (not always) the case that what required great courage in anticipation turned out to (appear to) require less from the perspective of completion.

Still, courage exists. There is more than sufficient evidence to take this on faith. It is beyond (good and proper and necessary) reasonable doubt.

Courage exists, as do many other things for which there is neither objective instrument nor scale, but the utterly relational human soul, constructed (and restored) and calibrated (and recalibrated) by God. The soul, which registers evidence, not proof. Evidence of the immeasurable and unscalable. Such as love (which looks like courage in the world).

What is the proof that you are waiting for – in relation to anything? Or, better, what is the evidence? What will it take for you to act?

Take courage.

 

Signs

 

This morning’s weather started out clement enough for me to eat breakfast outside, but is now rapidly deteriorating. I tried to say this, but also this morning my dyspraxic mouth did not possess the agility to handle six syllables in quick succession, and I got caught in a loop at -or-

deterior-or-or-ay-deterior-or-or-ay

Speech is a skill many of us take for granted, and certainly one expected of a public speaker. But speech is a provisional sign, and what it points to is not dependent on our proficiency.

Listening is also a skill; one we pay even less attention than speech. Listening is not so much the interpretation of the speech-sign, as an act of co-creation of the sign.

As all creation declares the Creator’s praise, and as we listen to the provisional voice of the wind, the gathering clouds, the rain, we become more aware of the One from whom we flow and to whom we return.

 

Mary

 

Today the Church remembers Mary, the mother of Jesus.

By the Holy Spirit, Jesus lived and grew in Mary’s womb for nine months, and thereafter lived and grew in her heart.

By that same Spirit, that same Jesus lives (or can live, if, like Mary, we say yes to God) and grows in our hearts.

The latter is dependent on, but by no means a lesser miracle than, the former. Just as the ‘second’ (not secondary) vocation or purpose of being human, to ‘Love your neighbour as yourself,’ is ‘like’ (that is, dependent on, but the same in every way as) the ‘first,’ ‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your mind, and with all your strength, and with all your soul.’ Or just as the Son is dependent on, but in all ways equal to, the Father.

As we gaze upon Mary gazing upon Jesus in love, may our lives be transformed so that we look, and live, more and more like him.

 

Of trees and lizards

 

I’m thinking about a story concerning the prophet Elijah, recorded in 1 Kings 19.4-8:

But he himself went a day’s journey into the wilderness, and came and sat down under a solitary broom tree. He asked that he might die: ‘It is enough; now, O Lord , take away my life, for I am no better than my ancestors.’ Then he lay down under the broom tree and fell asleep. Suddenly an angel touched him and said to him, ‘Get up and eat.’ He looked, and there at his head was a cake baked on hot stones, and a jar of water. He ate and drank, and lay down again. The angel of the Lord came a second time, touched him, and said, ‘Get up and eat, otherwise the journey will be too much for you.’ He got up, and ate and drank; then he went in the strength of that food for forty days and forty nights to Horeb the mount of God.

Ancient Hebrew has far fewer words than modern English, and so the same word can have multiple meanings. Also, language conveys our understanding of the world, and ancient Hebrew works at both a literal/material and metaphorical/spiritual level.

Elijah ‘went a day’s journey into the wilderness.’ Let’s break that down.

The word for wilderness/desert is, at root, also the word for mouth/speech. This is both fascinating and unsurprising, as the wilderness is the place where God speaks, or, more accurately, where humans speak with God.

The word for journey is also the word for Way, as in a way of life, which is worked out through conversation – which is also the same word.

The word for day is also the word for daily.

So, at a literal/material level, Elijah ‘went a day’s journey into the wilderness.’ And at a metaphorical/spiritual level, it is Elijah’s practice to be in daily conversation with God. We would call that prayer.

Now, some would argue that we work out which of the possible meanings a word should be given by the context. But I would argue that where a word can be understood in more than one way, it should be understood in more than one way. Because the context for the spiritual is always material, and the material is always spiritual. They belong together.

So, I would take it at face value that Elijah, whose practice it was to be in daily conversation with God, took a walk into the wilderness. And there he sat down under a broom tree.

Now, the broom tree also appears in Job chapter 30 and Psalm 120. For Job it is a symbol of those expelled by society, which Job applies to himself to say he feels rejected by God. Psalm 120 links the wood of the broom tree, which was prized for how well it burned, with a peacemaker dwelling amongst those who hate peace. This is where Elijah chooses to sit down, to stop walking on the way, to end his conversation. He has had enough.

God sends a messenger, an ambassador, who comes to Elijah as he sleeps, breaks off some branches from the broom tree, heats some flat stones on them, and bakes flat bread on the stones. (I love cake, but it is a misleading translation.) That is to say, God answers Elijah (who was not asking a question or seeking a continuation of their conversation) with food and drink. Again, I would take this at both a material and a spiritual level. Sustenance for body and soul.

Elijah awoke, ate and drank, and lay down again to sleep. Later, the ambassador returns, wakes him again, provides him with more food and water, and tells him that he needs to eat and drink if he is to have the strength [this word also means chamaeleon; weird, huh?] that he needs to undergo the journey ahead of him. That journey takes him to Horeb, the mountain of the Lord.

Horeb means Desolate. God waits for us in the place of our desolation. In the place where nothing else can console us. God waits for us, and, moreover, sustains us on the conversation that will bring us to that place, to confront ourselves, stripped of all the many outer layers with which we have tried to blend in, to mask ourselves [chamaeleon].

Now, before you decide that this is just my neurodivergent special interest, I happened to have a conversation with someone today, who has had more than enough of an impossible situation, and who is being sustained by a daily discipline of prayer alone. And I suspect that they are not the only person who can relate to Elijah today. So, I share this, in case it is the cake someone needs in this moment.

 

Hospitality

 

‘In our world full of strangers, estranged from their own past, culture and country, from their neighbors, friends and family, from their deepest self and their God, we witness a painful search for a hospitable place where life can be lived without fear and where community can be found. ... It is possible for men and women and obligatory for Christians to offer an open and hospitable space where strangers can cast off their strangeness and become our fellow human beings.’

~ Henri Nouwen.

I am struck by this quote, in relation to my city of Sunderland, full of strangers ‘estranged from their own past, culture and country’ because the coal pits and shipyards were closed; or because their ancestral villages are in Bangladesh or Pakistan; or because they are recently-arrived asylum seekers, international students, or social care workforce; or – like me – because they have never been rooted in any place. But whatever the reason, and whatever our history, so many of us have become strangers. New Testament ‘hospitality’ is [the Greek] ‘philoxenia’ – literally love of the stranger. We are all searching for a hospitable place, but we will find it together or not at all.

 

Blessed are the peacemakers

 

The English are rioting, and other nations are now warning their citizens here to take extreme care.

Human beings tend to have a few fairly predictable responses to fear. These are often summarised as fight, flight, freeze, or fawn. They are survival mechanisms, and they serve us more- or less- well when we face genuine threats. They serve us less well when we are exploited to imagine real and present danger. Various dynamics in our own personal histories can cause us to overly rely on particular tactics, but there is nothing deterministic about this, though we may have little choice in the moment.

Becoming a refugee and crossing land and sea to seek asylum is an example of the flight response.

White British communities rioting, and British Muslims rioting, are both examples of the fight response. Both communities are afraid, whether for questionable or demonstrable reasons. Sadly, Muslims rioting play into the hands of White Nationalist rioting, and so fear is perpetuated, to the delight of those who stoke it. But their fear is real and should not be lightly dismissed.

What we need is to learn to face our fear and choose love. Because we were created to bring love into the universe, as surely as the sun was created to bring light and warmth. But we struggle to believe it, to believe that we are worthy of love or capable of loving.

Jesus said, ‘Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.’

Peace, here, means wholeness. Heart and mind and strength and soul resting in love.

To work within a community to foster peace, to build bridges between ‘others’ such that we can find common ground of humanity to stand on, is so precious as to be considered divine.

But peacemakers are exactly what we need.

 

Sheep without shepherds

 

While I am saddened by the violence on our streets, I am also saddened by the vitriol against the rioters, and the many young people who have lost their way. In the words of Jesus, they are like sheep without a shepherd. No demon was ever driven out by demonising the child it afflicts. Those guilty of criminal damage or assault need to face the consequences of their actions, but justice itself needs reimagined in restorative and redemptive ways. And while those perpetrating antisocial behaviour may be a small minority, their actions are, to some extent at least, our collective failure.

 

I predict a riot

 

The rioting in Sunderland last night has been shocking, but not surprising. At the General Election a month ago, our First Past the Post (FPTP) system delivered a big majority for a centrist, left-leaning party. The neo-fascists took 16% of the vote; and won 5 out of 650 seats. They are angry; and have been looking for an excuse to riot since then. The tragic events in Southport were that excuse, but it is only an excuse. The people of Southport responded as a community should, coming together in peaceful vigil to tenderly hold one another in their grief. Nationally organised neo-fascists bringing agitators into communities that feel left behind and disenfranchised to stir up grievance does not honour those three little girls or their families—and does not care about the people of Hartlepool or Sunderland either. But there are many people in these places who are vulnerable to such exploitation due to complex, systemic and endemic issues. There are no easy answers (though I do believe replacing FPTP would help; and some form of PR would not have delivered 16% of the seats to the neo-fascists) but it will take deep community organising, in a way that slowly undermines forty years of extreme individualism that has made us believe that so long as we are doing alright, we don’t need to care about other people.

 

Heaven on earth

 

Jesus talked about heaven A LOT. Not as sitting around on a cloud for an eternity while a cherub plays the harp (as if parents hadn’t suffered enough at school concerts) but as the homecoming of our deepest longings, in this life.

When he talked about heaven, Jesus spoke in parables, analogies drawn between everyday life, with all its frustrations, and—in contrast—the fulfilment of those longings.

When his disciples asked why he spoke in parables, Jesus pointed to words spoken six centuries earlier, by the prophet Isaiah:

“See, a king will reign in righteousness,
and princes will rule with justice.
Each will be like a hiding-place from the wind,
a covert from the tempest,
like streams of water in a dry place,
like the shade of a great rock in a weary land.
Then the eyes of those who have sight will not be closed,
and the ears of those who have hearing will listen.”

Isaiah 32.1-3

That is to say, Jesus was claiming to be the king who would reign in righteousness, and he was seeking out princes who would rule with justice—though, in fact, Jesus was unusual, in that he expanded princes to include women. Those whose eyes and ears would be open to him, who would respond to the invitation to be with him, become like him, and do the things he did.

Such men and women would be like a hiding-place from the wind, a covert from the tempest, streams of water in a dry place, the shade of a great rock in a weary land.

That is the kind of person I want to be. Someone to whom those who live around me turn when the storm hits them, because in me—by God’s grace, and on account of Christ in me—heaven can be found in my neighbourhood.