King?

In just a week Advent will dawn, and we shall be hearing again in word and music elements of the birth narratives of Jesus. You and I know what images will come to mind: shepherds, star, Bethlehem inn, magi, the wicked King Herod. I can guarantee you that virtually no one will think about Caesar Augustus, even when he pops up in the well-known second chapter of Luke’s gospel on Christmas Eve.

Augustus Caesar

But Caesar Augustus is quite important to the story of Jesus, especially the story of his birth, and not only for the reason that he might have issued a decree that all the world should be taxed at about the time Jesus was to be born. Caesar held some interesting titles, one of which was “Son of God.”  Julius Caesar began to be called “Divine Julius” after his death by assassination. As his adopted son, Octavius, better known as Augustus, became known as the “son of God.” As you might guess or perhaps even know, quite a long and involved tale lies behind all that, but it brings us to a salient point today. In short, Jesus becomes the anti-Caesar. In the first place, he does not arrogate to himself the title “Son of God” but refers to himself frequently by the messianic title “Son of Man.” The Early Church, however, couldn’t leave well enough alone. By the time the gospels get to be written in the second half of the first century, Jesus was already Son of God.

It didn’t stop there. Within a century or two, one of the titles that the caesars used, βασιλευς, Greek for king, became of course a title that the Church bestowed upon Jesus. And that is where the trouble began. And that is the trouble today.

Today, the final Sunday in the Church Year, is popularly known as “Christ the King,” although the Prayer Book nowhere gives it that title. So what, you might ask, is the matter with that? Aside from the problems that a great many people have with the hierarchical and sexist overtones of “king,” there is bigger trouble.  It is what I would call the problem of imperial Christianity. Jesus the anti-Caesar morphed into another Caesar. What Jesus called his “kingship not of this world” became within a fairly short while precisely the opposite: a domination-oriented regime specializing in punishing people when they didn’t conform, amassing power for itself, regulating behavior by fanning fears of hell and worse, going to war against perceived enemies, and ultimately torturing people with unspeakable cruelty when they so much as appeared to be threatening the status of those in charge.

Not even Augustus, by all accounts the greatest and most successful of all the Caesars, was entirely comfortable with monarchical titles, referring to himself as the “Princeps,” the first citizen of the republic. Much less did Jesus align himself with either the prevailing power structure or its radicalized and revolutionary political opponents. But what Jesus talked about and taught about more than any other thing, by word and more so by example, was what he called the βασιλεια του θεου, the “kingdom” or “realm” of God. He never described himself as the ruler of the βασιλεια: that was not his point. Rather, Jesus focused on the radical shift in relationships in the βασιλεια, the manner in which its values are turned completely upside down. In the βασιλεια, the last are first and the first last. The child of no power and no account becomes the model for what the kingdom itself is like and what its members can and need to become. As the Magnificat puts is, the hungry are filled with good things, and the rich sent away empty. The proud are scattered in the imagination of their hearts; the humble and meek, exalted.

The slightest attention to all this should give us an unmistakable clue that God’s kingdom is, as Jesus once said to Pontius Pilate, not of this world. For nearly all human endeavor is organized along a different model. One way of putting it is that the world (St. Paul calls it “the flesh”) is run by the unbridled human ego, always interested in protecting itself, always plotting to triumph over this or that adversary, nearly always seeing things in terms of winning and losing. The losers in the world are frequently the saints in the βασιλεια of God. And the winners? They generally exclude themselves from God’s kingdom long before judgment day, so to say.

All this serves to clarify what the Epistle to the Colossians means by these words: “…He has delivered us from the power of darkness and transferred us into the kingdom of his beloved son, in whom we have redemption….” The power of darkness is in fact the age of Caesar, encompassing the systems of this world—economic, political, juridical, religious, even systems that ostensibly exist for the benefit of great good—education and health care, for instance. Evil powers infect and corrupt such systems, and we deny that corruption at our peril. Those who live in the kingdom are redeemed and freed precisely because they no longer serve the dark and insidious powers that twist and destroy the creatures of God. And when they do, they repent and return to the Lord, the king.

And speaking of repentance, that is not an incidental element in the life of the βασιλεια. You might wonder why today we hear a portion of the passion narrative. Why on this Sunday that is often associated with triumph and victory do we see a thoroughly humiliated and debased Jesus, crucified as a criminal? Tacked over his head is the ironic sign, “This is the king of the Jews,” a warning to all those who would follow him in renouncing the powers of this world. And what is his response? “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” Truer words were never spoken. We have no earthly idea of what we are doing most of the time. As smart and clever as human beings are, we keep missing the obvious. Like the railing thief, even the most pious of us sometimes shout out, “What’s the matter? Aren’t you the all-important anointed one, Messiah? Save yourself and us!” But the kingdom comes not with swords’ loud clashing nor roll of stirring drums, but in such humility as one finds in a simple miserere: “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

So what about calling Jesus “king” and the reign of God his “kingdom”? Is that not just too old-fashioned, particularly in a democracy that long ago renounced autocratic rulers and know-it-all leaders? Is “king” not just an antiquated synonym of the idolatrous politicians who hold out the hope of salvation on the one hand but with the other snatch it away in schemes of self-aggrandizement and ego promotion? No, kingship has not passed away. Nor has the possibility of a kingship worthy of the holy Name of Jesus. For king is an archetype deeply embedded in the human soul. The soul knows that there is such a thing as an irony that in true submission is perfect delight. The soul knows that there is a form of king whom to serve is perfect freedom. Though it is an ideal that we rarely if ever see in this life, we know it is there. It does not belong to a particular religion because it belongs to the universe and to the ages. We see it in a St. Francis, in a Nelson Mandela, in a Desmond Tutu, in a Black Elk, in a Harriet Tubman, in a Hildegard of Bingen, in Teresa of Avila, a Rosa Parks. None of them is or was flawless. All were imperfect creatures just like us. All of them we remember because they found a ruler to follow, a ruler known by such names as Truth, Honor, Sacrifice, Kindness, Love.

Statue of Richard I outside the Houses of Parliament

In Sir Walter Scott’s novel Ivanhoe, a mysterious character appears here and there in wars and skirmishes, always fighting alongside the troops struggling for justice and warring against the powers and principalities that threaten the good. He is known by the color of his dark armor, simply as “the black knight.” No one knows who he is or where he comes from. 

And then one day he reveals himself. He is their king, Richard the Lionheart, who has returned from his foreign wars to fight alongside his followers. That is not a piece of history. It is a deep truth that the soul knows best. We know in our souls that at last, when all now hidden is made known, our eyes will be opened, and we will recognize One who has been beside us struggling with us and for us all along. Call him what you will. He is the Lord of hosts, the king of glory. And he is for real.

           

Caravaggio, "Ecce Homo"

© Frank Gasque Dunn, 2016

Downsizing

 Luke 12:32-40

           

            Some years ago, what we then called The Presiding Bishop’s Fund for World Relief, now known as Episcopal Relief and Development, put out a little Advent calendar.  There was a suggestion for every day in Advent to spur donations.  Noting that a certain percentage of the world’s population was under-clothed, one suggestion sent me to my closet to count the sweaters, daring me to contribute a quarter for each one.  When we added up all the sweaters of the four of us, I was appalled to discover that we perhaps had nearly a hundred sweaters of various sorts.  At that rate, my contribution would amount to a major tax deduction.  Each day the calendar reminded me and my family of what we had relative to the bulk of the world’s peoples.   We counted cans of food in our pantry, rooms in our house, blankets, kitchen utensils, appliances.  I am glad the calendar didn’t “charge” us for every book in the house or I would have been bankrupt. 

            Looking back on it, I can fairly say that my life changed that Advent.  Until then I don’t believe I actually computed how much I had.  Like many middle class Americans, I had always thought of myself as living rather modestly.  I awoke to the fact that I was, by the world’s standards, very rich indeed.

            Along about that time I read a book by the Quaker author Richard Foster in which he suggested that I go through my house noticing the things I was attached to.  He pressed the idea that I might ponder giving those things away.  I tried it.  I gulped.  I balked.  That painting?  That set of books?  Mama’s loveseat?  My piano? 

            Growing older has its compensations.  One of them is that over the years you come to see how holding onto something is really rather useless.  Things take up space.  They breed clutter.  That can choke life.

            And that is why grasping and holding on to stuff—not just physical stuff but attitudes, habits, opinions, positions—is so at odds with what Jesus called the Kingdom of God.  Nothing that chokes life, that stifles growth, that encourages the human spirit to collapse in on itself is consonant with the freeing, exhilarating, dynamism of the Kingdom.

            So I want you to think with me about what the New Testament refers to as the βασιλεια του θεου, which in English has generally been translated as the “kingdom” of God.  It is, incidentally, not so much the place, the territory, or even the state of being in which something is practiced, as it is the sovereignty, the rule, of God.  We can think of it as Ultimate Truth and rightness with universal application.  “Realm” or “commonwealth” or other such words don’t quite get at the heart and thrust of βασιλεια [pronounced bah•si•LAY•ah].

            According to the gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke, the βασιλεια (I am going to call it that from here on) formed the center of Jesus’ teaching.  In Matthew it is the βασιλεια of heaven, while in Mark and Luke it is the βασιλεια of God, but the two terms are synonymous.   Jesus comes onto the stage proclaiming that the βασιλεια has come near, or is at hand, or is present.  He then proceeds to exhibit the characteristics of the βασιλεια in his teaching, his healing, his preaching.  In teaching, especially in parables, Jesus’ tells us about the βασιλεια.  It is both present and future.  There is a sense in which it has already come, as witnessed by the mighty acts that he himself performs.  Yet it has not been fully realized, as it will be in the future when the rule or sovereignty of God is completely expressed and recognized.  But Jesus is clear that in both present and future, life in the βασιλεια is a life of growth.  It is a life of giving.  Inclusiveness, generosity, determination, perseverance, forgiveness, adventurousness, courage, compassion, attention, watchfulness, patience, singleness of heart, and total dedication are some of the values and virtues that the parables and pronouncements ascribe to the βασιλεια.  His powerful works likewise manifest the tremendous energy of love turned loose to feed, to free, to restore sight to the blind, to strengthen the weak, to cure the sick, to raise the dead.  Over and over, Jesus’ discloses that God’s rule is on the side of justice, compassion, and liberation.  In fact, the only people who are left out of the βασιλεια are those who presume to have God on their side, who oppress the weak, who neglect to do good, who keep the rules meticulously but abrogate the practice of charity.

           

            So when we listen to today’s gospel, we hear part of a larger message of Jesus  which has broadly to do with getting ready for the coming of the βασιλεια in all its fullness.  It amounts to living in the present the way we will live in the consummated βασιλεια.  “Do not be afraid, ” says Jesus, “it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the βασιλεια.”  God is not about withholding the βασιλεια.  Quite the contrary.  God’s sovereignty is exactly about bringing the βασιλεια among people and bringing people into the βασιλεια.  He tells us to sell our possessions, to give alms, to make purses for ourselves that are not about keeping money but about the treasures of the βασιλεια, which are right relationships, justice, and mercy.  Expectancy characterizes those who are rehearsing, as it were, for the arrival of the complete rule of God:  be like “those who are waiting for their master to return from the wedding banquet, so that they may open the door for him as soon as he comes and knocks.”  Whether this is the Early Church talking about the expected imminent return of Jesus himself, or Jesus talking about the total reign of God which is coming, it amounts to the same thing:  stay in a state of preparedness.  Live without fear.  Have your eyes fixed on the values and relationships that characterize God’s βασιλεια. 

            It is precisely at this point, however, that the Church keeps going off the rails.  The first major thing that happened—you can see it in the New Testament itself—is that the overriding message came to be about Jesus himself.  That is fine—after all one cannot entirely separate Jesus from his teaching—until three hundred or so years have passed.  From then on, Jesus has been so remote from ordinary people that nothing he said or did seems to have much impact on the way we live.  Consider the fact that we do not actually do what our divine Jesus said do or refrain from what he forbade.  Instead, the Church has made sure, by and large, that Jesus has stayed locked up in stained glass, a god to be bowed down to rather than followed seriously.  Sell our goods and give to the poor?  Love our enemies?  Take no thought for tomorrow?  Generally, that does not go down well, certainly not when folks are affluent, well educated, and relatively powerful.

            But a large swath of the Church keeps misunderstanding the βασιλεια in another way.  We keep somehow imagining that this business about the βασιλεια of God being in the future means that we don’t get into it until we die and go to heaven, which, for most people, is somewhere up in the sky or at least distinct from this world.  There is nothing in Jesus’ teaching that supports the notion that life here is all about being scared to death that if you mess up you won’t go to heaven.  But don’t tell that to many Christians!  The whole game is widely understood not only by Christians but by a great many who don’t even believe in Jesus to be about an afterlife.  Must I say yet again that eternal life, which is a synonym for the βασιλεια of God, is inherently something that has no end (and no beginning) but is indeed the Life of God itself?  The last thing we need to be worried about is the veracity of Jesus’ saying, “Do not be afraid, little flock; it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the βασιλεια.” 

            So what, then, does it mean to live as a community of folk sharing the βασιλεια of God?  It is impossible to reduce it to rules, and the temptation to do so is strong, to say the least.  In fact there is something that lies at the heart of human experience that the βασιλεια calls us to address.  That is anxiety.  Anxiety is pervasive, cross-cultural, universal.  Those who don’t know where the next meal is coming from or what to do when their hovel has been swept away in a typhoon or tsunami are understandably anxious.  Those who stand some chance of bettering their life worry about how to get ahead.  Those who have all they need are anxious about having even more.  And those who have more are anxious about securing their wealth.  Having things is no antidote to anxiety.  Yet we have a culture, indeed a world, that is largely built on the premise that materia equals security and security erases anxiety. 

            To put our faith in Christ is to strike out, like all those heroes of faith we heard about in Hebrews, and live by God in the βασιλεια.  Have you begun to do that, or are you interested in trying?  It by no means shields you from suffering, but rather ensures that a providential God is with you in your hour of suffering, not infrequently in the form of a community that cares about you.  It does not protect you from loss, but allows you to practice living through your losses in a way that can enable you to see beyond depression to a Center where you are held in deep love that exceeds both what you can feel and even what you can imagine.  It is does not keep you out of darkness, but sends you into your own darkness to find that God shows up there, sometimes as a deep and dazzling darkness.  The βασιλεια involves us in working for real righteousness, which in biblical thought means justice in relationships, rather than keeping us preoccupied with our own personal concerns. 

            And all of this consists in what virtually all of the world’s wisdom traditions consistently teach:  let go.  Let go.  We have a choice of two basic stances in life:  grasping or giving.  That is what I learned about that hoard of sweaters housed in the rectory by the Dunn family many years ago.  We didn’t even know what we had, let alone whether we needed it.  It was only when we began to open up, giving away little by little what we had accumulated, that I, at least, began to experience what the βασιλεια ultimately promises: freedom.  Have nothing that you cannot afford to lose.  That is the meaning of discipleship and the heart of what it means to live in the βασιλεια of God. 

            To the extent we live that way, we begin to look more and more like Jesus.  We begin to be recognizable as his beloved community precisely because letting go of everything is the one way we can surely become open; and being open is the first step towards loving; and loving is above all what Jesus and the βασιλεια are all about.  To the extent that we take on the characteristics of Jesus, we take on the characteristics of God. 

            And then will have come to pass the saying that is written, “the βασιλεια of God is within you.”

© Frank Gasque Dunn, 2013

Insecurity Check

Would that the Bible only said what we wish it did! Truth be told, the most ardent biblical fundamentalist secretly wishes that the story of the rich young ruler, the traditional name given to the character in today’s gospel, really didn’t say what it does. So what do we do with Bible stories and pronouncements of Jesus that we viscerally disagree with? We doctor them up so that we can agree with them. Or, I suppose, alternatively, we just choose not to listen, telling ourselves that it can’t matter much anyway.

Most of the time a sermon addresses the obvious. Today I want to address something not so obvious. Rather than look at the rich young ruler (so called because Matthew says he was young and Luke says he was a ruler and all of them say he was rich), who to my mind is a very attractive fellow—Mark says that Jesus, looking on him, loved him—I invite you instead to study the disciples. Mark pictures them as within earshot of the conversation between Jesus and the young man. He does not tell us if the disciples were paying attention or not, or how they reacted to the incident, whether shocked or nonchalant. What Mark does tell us is that Jesus uses the incident as a “teaching moment.” He looks around and says to his disciples, “How hard it will be for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God!” And the disciples are astonished, perplexed, puzzled at his words. Why? Some things never change. And one of them is that cultures the world over fix it so that the rich and powerful appear to be the darlings of God. People get to believing that. Hence we get the religion of prosperity, which you may see in full display in the religion section of Barnes and Noble or on a special book rack in your local Giant. Get close to God and you will prosper: that is the message. And the corollary is if you prosper, you must be close to God. To tell a rich person today (and, by the world’s standards, everyone in this church today is rich) that wealth blocks the doorway to the kingdom of God does not go down any better than it did in the first century. The decks are loaded in favor of the rich, and everyone with any gumption knows it.

So what is with Jesus?  Well, let’s not ask that question, at least not yet. Let’s ask another one. What is with the Kingdom of God? That is what this story is really about. Wealth would not be important at all if it weren’t somehow implicated in keeping someone out of this utterly desirable “kingdom.” Well, in the first place, what Jesus calls the “kingdom of God” is not a piece of geography either in this world or in any other. It is not “heaven” if by “heaven” you mean life after death. Even in Matthew’s gospel where the phrase “the kingdom of heaven” is used, neither Jesus nor the gospel writers are talking about the afterlife. The realm of God, the commonwealth of God, the reign of God is a transformed life, a transformed world, a re-created society of re-created persons. The domain of God is a vast realignment of relationships, a rearranging of values, the Ace played that whisks away the tricks of humans to protect ourselves, to insulate ourselves, to survive.  First among those tricks is acquisition. Whatever we acquire, we tell ourselves, is what will help us to live, to win, to be acceptable, and ultimately to survive, maybe even to be like gods. That is what snatching that fruit in the Garden of Eden story is about. That is why Pharaohs were buried with their treasures. That is why the poor spend the few crumbs they have on lotteries, not out of desperation so much as to participate in a society that tells them relentlessly that to acquire is to survive. That is what drives the drug trade, what fuels organized crime, what our entire political system is built on. That is, in fact, what most—not all—people mean when they talk endlessly about “the American dream:” it is the dream of acquiring what one wants and thinks one needs in order to be successful. 

A quick reading of the gospels will reveal
the difference between the Cross and Money

This trick of acquiring tricks us into thinking that not only things but spiritual qualities can be acquired, like outfits in a wardrobe or necklaces in a jewelry box. Hence, we not infrequently imagine, as does the man in the gospel story, that we can rack up spiritual points too. “I have kept all these commandments since my youth,” we might say. We are in good shape. We have the grades to prove it. 

That is the way our human world is constructed. And that is why the disciples are so shocked when Jesus says that it will be hard for those with riches to enter the kingdom of God. That kingdom is a present reality. It is here. It is now. It transcends time and death for sure, for it is clearly not of this world. But God has pitched tent in the field of human history and started serving a huge banquet in that tent, to which you have been invited. The only hitch is you have to go through certain “insecurity” procedures to get in. Empty your pockets. Take everything out of your briefcase.  Computers, iPods, iPads, iPhones, checkbooks, stocks, bonds, insurance, licenses, diplomas. No belt, no shoes, no backpack. 

What might an "insecurity check" look like? 

I’m not even sure that to get into the kingdom we can hold on to our rings and earrings. I’m not even sure that we can hold on to our clothes! (Now are you beginning to get nervous?) Seriously. Jesus was not joking when he said, “Except you become as children, you will never enter the kingdom.” Nor was he joking when he told one person, “You must be begotten from above,” meaning, “You have to begin all over again.” The realm of God is lived wholly differently.

Jesus does not say that it is impossible for the rich to enter the kingdom, but rather that it is quite hard for them (us?) to do so. Some point out that the little tiny passageway in a Jerusalem gate big enough for one or may two small persons to walk through, called a “needle’s eye” is what Jesus meant when he imagined stuffing a camel into one. The camel would hardly think it a possibility, or even a good idea, but rather a stupid thing to try (if I may speak for camels). But I think Jesus probably meant something more like an actual camel being squeezed through something as small as a real needle’s eye: not only is it hard, it is something you just don’t really have any business trying to do.  It does not fit.   

So what does fit? What is fit? Who is fit for the domain of God? Believe it or not, you are. You get to choose what you will do when you go through “insecurity” checks. Just like the rich young man in the gospel story, you and I may either empty our lives and ourselves, or we can go away grieving because it is just so hard to do that. Either response, of course, assumes that we really want to live the life of God. You must be thinking, “So where is the good news in any of this, especially for us relatively affluent Americans?” The good news is that all things are possible to God. And this generous, loving, beneficent God who sends rain on the just and unjust alike, has no agenda to kick you out or keep you out of God’s life. It is God’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom, as Jesus once put it. Nothing that I read in the gospel or elsewhere tells us that Jesus gave the young man twenty-four hours to dispose of all his possessions. What might have happened if he had said, “OK, Good Master, I’m going to start today. Don’t know how long it might take me to get there—but let me get started.”  That is not in the Bible, but suppose it were. Might the young man have ended the story differently?

Niko Katzanzakis' epitaph:
 "I hope for nothing, I fear nothing; I am free."

I once was reading a book which suggested that it might be a good idea to go through my house and look at all the things I was attached to with the thought of giving them away. So I did. At first it scared the bejeezes out of me. I looked at paintings I adored, furniture I treasured, and cases and cases of books I could never live without. I imagined myself giving a particular painting (still my favorite) called “The Juggler” to a young man in my parish who was a pretty good juggler. I imagined parting with my books, and giving away Mama’s antique love seat. Just the very thought of doing all that began to make my heart feel lighter. I took a step that day towards the kingdom. Since then I have discovered what the sages of the world have long been saying—that letting go is the only human problem there is, and when we do it we begin to approach that splendid place of nothing which is true freedom. Katzanzakis’s tombstone bears the words, “I hope for nothing, I fear nothing, I am free.” That, ironically, is what the kingdom of God is about, and why it is that at the center of our faith stands a naked man on a cross. That cross hangs over our altars and over our doors because at every possible entrance to the kingdom we are reminded that the quintessential quality of God’s life is giving—giving one’s life—profligate, prodigal, limitless giving. And we generally don’t become like God in one leap, but rather in incremental steps. Two per cent of our income this year, five next year, ten in a few years, and more and more as time goes on in proportion to how much we are blessed to get. We take a step and get better at it. We take another step and get even better at it. Then we begin to feel the joy. We find ourselves tipping waiters more generously, looking for causes that we can support to make our world better, seeking out occasions to affirm a young person or to support an older one. Step by baby step, we have become children, taking on the characteristics of our Creator Parent.  

Then one day, when Jesus turns and glances at us, we might find it in us to speak this truth: Lo, we have left everything and followed you. And that day will be the day that we will truly have come home to that surprising kingdom where many who were last shall be first.

"His disciples said, 'When will you become revealed to us
and when shall we see You?' 
Jesus said, 'When you disrobe without being ashamed
and take up your garments and place them under your feet
 like little children and tread on them,
then [will you see] the Son of the Living One
and you will not be afraid.'"
Gospel of Thomas 37

A sermon based on Mark 10:17-31, Proper 23 Year B of the Revised Common Lectionary

© Frank Gasque Dunn 2012, revised 2018

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