who do you think you are?

 

‘But our citizenship is in heaven, and it is from there that we are expecting a Saviour, the Lord Jesus Christ. He will transform the body of our humiliation so that it may be conformed to the body of his glory, by the power that also enables him to make all things subject to himself.’

Philippians 3.20, 21

When we read the Bible, we are invited to find ourselves in the story, and to do so honestly, in Christ. He is the interpretive key to the story, the resurrected Jesus who appears to his followers and says, ‘Peace be with you.’ Whatever you are going through, peace be with you.

This Sunday when the church gathered to meet with Jesus, we read from a letter Paul wrote to our brothers and sisters in Philippi.

Around forty years before the birth of Jesus, the brilliant Roman general Julius Caesar took for himself emergency powers to save the Republic. Not everyone agreed that this would save the Republic. Some, even former friends of Caesar’s, believed it would destroy the Republic. Caesar was assassinated (on what our calendar calls 15th March, 44 BCE) and the Republic thrown into civil war. Caesar’s friend Mark Anthony and adopted son Octavian chased Cassius and Brutus around the Mediterranean, catching up with them just outside Philippi, in Macedonia. Mark Anthony and Octavian won a decisive battle and rewarded many of their legionaries for faithful service by giving them Philippi as their pension, also making the city a colony of Rome, that is, Rome in another place.

Around fifteen years later, Mark Anthony and Octavian had fallen out, Octavian had defeated his former friend, and declared himself emperor, taking the title Augustus, or venerable, and rewarding more soldiers with retirement in Philippi.

Paul will turn up in town around seventy-five years later. By now the original generation of Roman citizens is gone, but the current residents enjoyed Roman citizenship as a participation in the reward of someone else.

This, too, is the basis on which we are citizens of heaven, of the rule and reign of God in the world which is the reward given to Jesus for being faithful even unto death, and which we benefit from. Not on the grounds of our own faithfulness.

Paul, Silas and Timothy were seeking to establish new communities of followers of Jesus in what today we would call Turkey. But every way they turned, they felt God say, not here, not yet.

Perhaps you know what it is like to seek guidance for a decision you need to make or an action you are looking to take and feel only confusion and frustration.

Eventually, one night Paul has a dream. A man from Macedonia stands before him, saying, Come over to us; we need to hear the Gospel too.

The next morning, over breakfast, Paul tells his friends about his dream, and they agree this is what they need to do. So, they head to the nearest port, take a ship across the Aegean Sea to Neapolis, and make the short walk inland to Philippi.

Wherever Paul went, his first move was to seek out the Jewish community, those with whom he had a common history. But at Philippi, there was no Jewish community. Perhaps there were some Gentiles who worshipped the Jewish god, and if so, they would probably be found on the Sabbath, a little way outside the city walls, by the river where there was flowing water to wash in before praying. And this is where they do find such people, including Lydia.

Lydia was a businesswoman, an immigrant to Philippi from Thyatira, perhaps what we would call a fashion designer. She invited Paul and his companions to be her guests; they told her about Jesus; and she asked to be baptised. Then for several days they shared stories of Jesus.

But as they walked through the city, they would be followed around by a slave girl who was possessed, or oppressed, by a demon that purported to tell your fortune. As many people want to know what is going to happen, or think that they do, or want to find a hack to swing chance in their favour, this slave girl made her owners, her pimps, very wealthy. And she started following Paul and his companions around, telling anyone in earshot, ‘These men are servants of the Most High God, who bring you a message of salvation.’

The endorsement of a demon is not the kind of publicity Paul is looking for, for Jesus. At first he tries to ignore her, but eventually it is too much. He turns around and performs an exorcism. The girl returns to herself, and her owners realise that they have lost their income stream. This makes them angry.

They drag Paul and Silas before the magistrates and accuse them of inciting public disorder. The magistrates decree that, accordingly, they should be stripped and beaten with rods in the public square, then spend the night in the cells before being run out of town. And this is what happened.

Paul and Silas find themselves in stocks in the innermost cell. And their response is to sing hymns of praise. Behaviour that intrigues the other prisoners. Who does this?

During the night there is an earthquake, and the prison doors fail. The jailer despairs. He sees a future in which he is held accountable for the escape of his prisoners, where he suffers the public shame of trial and execution; and he decides that it would be more honourable to take his own life.

But Paul calls out, ‘Stop! No one has escaped.’ You might feel that you have no options, but you do have options. And the jailer chooses to take Paul and Silas into his home, wash them, tend to their bruised and bloodied bodies, feed them. And he asks these extraordinary men, ‘Sirs, what must I do to be saved?’ And, like Lydia, he and his household are baptised.

The next morning, the magistrates send the word to expel Paul and Silas from the city. But Paul does not think so. They are, he claims, Roman citizens. This terrifies the magistrates. It is not legal to punish a Roman citizen without trial, yet they had not taken the trouble to establish who was brought before them or their side of the story. They saw only a foreigner whose presence was an offence. Paul could be Nigerian, and Philippi, Sunderland. But for this failure, the magistrates could lose their jobs and be banned for life from holding any public office.

Instead, they find themselves humbled before Paul. Paul and Silas rejoin their companions, return to Lydia’s home to say their farewells, and leave town on their own terms.

Later, Paul writes to the brothers and sisters in Philippi, about (among other things) their primary citizenship (a colony of the rule of God) and the hope that the humiliated body will be glorified.

So where do you find yourself in this story of citizens and migrants, of feeling oppressed or of being exploited, of miscarriages of justice, of deep despair, of burning humiliation?

Where does Jesus suddenly appear before you, saying, ‘Peace be with you?’

 

non-anxious presence

 

I am witnessing a lot of anxiety at the moment. And in response, I want to say:

[1] The world is not going to hell in a handcart. The world is being drawn into the reconciliation of all things to God in Jesus. All movement that enlarges the distance between people, or between people and the rest of creation, is an aberration, a temporary state of affairs, where we have yet to respond to grace. Keep choosing to move with the grain of history, not against it, by the grace of God.

[2] 47 is not God’s man appointed to bring about God’s purposes. The man God has appointed, who has brought about, is bringing about, and will bring about God's purposes, is Jesus. No one else. Not 47, not you, not me. Christian Nationalism is idolatrous.

[3] On the other hand, nothing that 47 or anyone else can do can derail the trajectory to reconciliation in and with and through Jesus. Nothing that falls short of Love has the power to defeat Love.

[4] You are not reading about Putin and 47 in the Book of Revelation. Revelation is an apocalypse, a genre of work that lifts the veil on present events to reveal what is going on in a deeper reality. The present events in question being the end of what we now refer to as the first century of the Common Era. Revelation was written to encourage Christians living under the seemingly all-powerful Roman empire to remain faithful to Jesus, even to death, for through their faithful witness Rome would fall. Everything we see in Revelation concerns events that took place long before our time. Because Jesus is the same yesterday, today and forever, we can extrapolate truth about the nature and action of God, and our vocation to remain faithful to Jesus in the face of empire, just as we can do with the texts that make up the Old Testament. But to claim that we are living in the events depicted in Revelation is an aggrandisement of our time, a foolish self-importance.

[5] Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return. Turn away from sin and remain faithful to Christ to the end of your days.

As you were.

 

Ash Wednesday

 

In his Gospel—good news story—concerning Jesus, John records an incident in the temple at Jerusalem, a building that stands for a convergence of national, religious, cultural identity and power. On this occasion, Jesus is visiting the temple and is speaking in front of a gathered crowd who are taking an interest. But the scene is hijacked by a group of men who are important in their own eyes. They thrust a woman in front of Jesus. She has, they say, been caught in the very act of committing adultery. She is, one may surmise, not dressed in a manner they consider appropriate for the hallowed space in which she now finds herself. She has forgotten herself. She has not shown the expected deference. She has no cards in her hand, and without the help of those who are exposing her to public humiliation, it will all be over for her very quickly. She is silenced.

She is somewhat collateral damage, for their true intention is to push Jesus to do as they want. Will he refuse to show mercy, and so place himself in their debt, a debt they may choose to call in at any moment of their own choosing? Or will he refute them, in which case he will invalidate his credentials against their interpretation of founding documents? And who, exactly, are these men trying to impress?

Jesus ignores the men. He stoops down and draws in the dust on the ground with his finger, moving it around, so that it settles in a new configuration, so that it lies differently now.

Most Saturday mornings, I take part in the local parkrun, and afterward we go to the café in the sports centre. Near the door to the centre is a banner, a larger-than-life size photo of a smiling middle-aged woman with the text ‘Be the best version of you.’ I am sure she is a lovely person, but I cannot help but think that the best version of me looks somewhat different. But being the best version of you is quite the thing to be these days, involving self-discovery and self-improvement. We might even be tempted to coopt the Season of Lent into this programme.

But self-discovery and self-improvement are treacherous goals. Our identity is not a fixed given we discover, nor a project we construct for ourselves. When we embark on such activities we become to ourselves like Pharaoh conscripting the Israelites to hard labour or condemn our future selves to excavating and robbing the graves of our past selves.

In his letters to early congregations of Jesus-followers, Paul proclaims that our identity is in Christ. It is he, who died and rose again for us, who is the eternal convergence of our past, present and future, the givenness of our identity. And as John records, Jesus is the one who writes on the ground, who re-orders the dust of which we are made—dust animated by the breath of God—including in ways that reveal his unassuming mastery over events that befall us. Paul goes so far as to say that we are hidden in him—that is to say, our identity, which is kept safe by him for all eternity, is at least partially hidden from others and also from ourselves. For one thing, who among us could know, at four years old, what we would be at fifty, or at eighty? There is both continuity and discontinuity—the same dust, reconfigured many times.

On Ash Wednesday, I press my finger into a mash of ash and fragrant olive oil and trace the pattern of the cross on the forehead of those who find themselves standing in front of me. They may feel humiliated by the circumstances of their life, by their shortcomings, by their inability to take and keep hold of the best version of themselves. They may very well have been wounded by the actions of others, whether old wounds that have left scars or fresh wounds that have left bruises. The cross I trace says you have died with Christ. Not only are you mortal, but you have already died: you share in his death, and in his rising, in his glory, for your identity is in him, and only in him. You are hidden in him. His past, present and future are your past, present and future; and your past, present and future are his and in him. Nothing can separate you from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus. Nothing that has changed or is changing or will change your very partial understanding of yourself; nothing you have experienced, are experiencing, or shall experience. And in him, one day you shall fully know yourself, and be fully known.

And with the sign of the cross in ash, words of invitation: ‘remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return; turn away from sin and be faithful to Christ to the end of your days.’ Such action—turning away from sin and returning to Christ, which, if it is true that we are in him is also to return to ourselves—achieves nothing for us. It is not a process of self-improvement, of becoming the best version of you. It is simply the expression of a thankful heart, for what has already been done. The best version of you—the version that has been set free from the hold of sin over us; the version that is the righteousness of God—has already been called into being through Christ and with Christ and in Christ, along with the rest of humanity. We do not need to strive for perfection, or wrestle with existential angst. We may, indeed, lament aspects of the past, present or future, but even as we are treated—by others, by ourselves—as dying, we are alive; as punished, and yet not killed; as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, and yet possessing everything. This Lent, may we rest secure in this amazing grace, and know ourselves afresh to be reconciled to God.

 

arc of history

 

Like many, I have been watching global political events unfolding over recent weeks. We are witnessing a major change in approach—at least official approach—by the US, with consequences that run far wider. I have a friend who often says that people are alright, wherever they are from; it is the politicians who are the problem. Respectfully, I disagree, for several reasons: firstly, politicians are people, not some other category of being; moreover, many politicians are good people, working hard for the communities they represent; and politics can be a helpful way to share resources for the common good.

But politics, and politicians, cannot address our most fundamental problem, which is that at the deepest level we are alienated from, and fearful of, the Other, those who are not accepted/acceptable within our family or group or tribe. Some Christian traditions call this original sin; some Christian traditions call it the original wound. Politics cannot bridge that divide; indeed, politics reflects and can deepen the divide.

Christians believe that the arc of history is irrevocably moving towards the bridging of that divide, the healing of that wound, in the person of Jesus; and that, whatever the times we find ourselves in look and feel like, in Jesus now is always the auspicious moment in history to be reconciled with God and our neighbour. To discover that we are acceptable/accepted.

That same trajectory passes through me and carries me, an arc that originates in God and will return to God. An arc that moves through time, which, like me, is itself one of God’s creatures, and is held within God—specifically, Christians believe, in Jesus. A path that, viewed close up, as I trace it, often appears—and is experienced as—tangled, heading in the wrong direction, or even blocked. This is real, but not the ultimate reality. When tempted to despair, at ourselves or on account of the actions of those Others we fear—including where we, or they, attempt to co-opt that arc, to co-opt Jesus, to the purposes of division—we need to zoom out, to see the bigger picture.

These are dark times, and there are those who take advantage of the darkness to harm others for their own gain. This is also the time we have been given, the fitting time to choose for Life, for Light, for Love. For peace, with guaranteed security. Accept no substitutes.