Mark Driscoll and the Reformed-Emergent smackdown, pt. 2

Yesterday, I posted some thoughts on Mark Driscoll’s speech at last month’s Convergent Conference. Plenty of others were blogging about this long before I was. To see what they’re saying about the speech, go here.

Whether or not you agree with Mark, he’s a significant voice in the church, and it’s worth listening to his presentation (if you have time—it’s about 80 minutes long). Click here to download the podcast.

Here’s my second major takeaway from his speechification (go here for part 1)…

2. The danger of being against being known for what you’re against

Mark’s speech began with a few moments of impossible-not-to-admire introspection. Telling his story with refreshing humility, he described a time in his life when he was too “jealous, proud, self-righteous, and mean spirited.” I wish more of us could be this transparent.

Mark went on to say, as he began his critique of the emerging church, “It’s really hard for me. I don’t want to be the man who’s known by what he’s against.”

The next 40 minutes—precisely half of his speech—were spent criticizing three people: Brian McLaren, Doug Pagitt, and Rob Bell. In the case of one of these individuals, Mark openly questioned his devotion to God and called his theological method “frightening.” The word heresy was used in close proximity to these names.

I’ve met these three people before. Shared a meal with a couple of them. One was my teaching pastor for more than three years. I may not agree with every single thing they say, but I have a great deal of admiration for these guys.

Of the three, only one has responded to Mark’s speech. None have gone on the counterattack. And none of them have questioned Mark’s devotion to God.

Maybe, if we want learn how avoid being known for what we’re against, we should look to those on the receiving end of Mark’s criticism.

Tomorrow, part 3: the dangers of guilt by association and selective quotation.

Mark Driscoll and the Reformed-Emergent smackdown, pt. 1

About a month ago, Mark Driscoll (pastor of Seattle’s ginormous megachurch phenomenon otherwise known as Mars Hill—not to be confused with Michigan’s ginormous megachurch phenomenon also known as Mars Hill) spoke at the Convergent Conference, sharing his thoughts on two competing visions of Christianity.

In his speech (click here for the podcast), Mark drew strong battle lines between what he calls the “Revisionists” (i.e. the emerging church) and the “Relevant Reformed” (his group—i.e. the cool Calvinists).

Recently I took a theological worldview survey for the fun of it, and apparently I’ve got a little bit of the both groups me, among other things. (Not to blur the battle lines or anything…) While there are some very real differences between these two perspectives, I’m not sure I buy the idea that they’re mutually exclusive in every way.

Needless to say, there have been lots of reactions to Mark’s speech—some heralding it as a watershed moment marking the beginning of the end for all those emerging types… others questioning the tone and substance of Mark’s presentation… and still others simply, ah, winking at Mark.

Mark Driscoll is an important voice in the church today, so I decided to tune in and see what Mark had to say. And it provoked a number of thoughts/questions/observations. I see at least five dangers in it all, so I think I’ll divide this into five posts. Here’s number one:

1. The danger of conversations and the even greater danger of not having them

There is no single term that can describe the entire emerging church, but I think many would agree that seeing faith as a conversation—that is, a dialogue, a journey, a process of discovery—is one of the emerging church’s major contributions to Christian thought. Even one of its leading critics, D.A. Carson, picked up on this in the title of his book, Becoming Conversant With the Emerging Church.

But Mark seemed to depict conversation as one of the great threats to the church:

What concerns me is what I see in Genesis 3… It shows us where history went askew and we were led by the serpent—which Revelation reveals is Satan our enemy—into error and falling. And that is through a conversation. And the emergent church has positioned itself as a conversation—a conversation about things that God has said. A conversation about whether or not God meant what he said. Of course, I don’t mind a conversation. I have a wife and two daughters—I’ve had them. But when God speaks, we are not to converse. We are to obey.

Now, the notion of faith as a conversation was not invented by the emerging church. It’s an integral part of the biblical story.

What about Abraham, who not only conversed with God, but openly questioned how God could bring about his promised blessings (Genesis 15)? Or what about when Abraham bargained with God over the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah (Genesis 18:16-33)?

What about Moses, who tried (and failed) to converse his way out of leading the Hebrews (Exodus 3-4) and, on another occasion, boldly—and successfully—talked God out of destroying the Israelites in the wilderness (Exodus 32:11-14)?

What about Job, who engaged in such a scandalously frank conversation about God’s justice that his friends rebuked him for it? (In the end, Job’s friends were rebuked by God for questioning Job’s integrity.)

What about the rabbis, who engaged in a never-ending conversation about the Torah, how to interpret it, and which laws were more important—a conversation that Jesus actively participated in?

Conversation is risky—and yes, it can be dangerous. But a conversation about what God said is not necessarily the same as a conversation about whether or not he really meant what he said. After reading the scriptures, some might even say that faith itself is one big conversation; it’s through conversing with the text and each other that God reveals himself to us. God demands our allegiance and obedience, yes—but he also invites us to wrestle with him, like Jacob did.

Tomorrow, part 2: the danger of being against being known for what you’re against…

we are part of something bigger

This is a picture I took a couple years ago in an olive grove halfway up Mount Carmel in Israel. According to our guide, the trees in this grove are more than two thousand years old.

Notice the newer branches growing out of the stump. It makes me think of the practice of grafting—where a branch from one plant is fused into the trunk of another. I don’t know if that’s what happened to this tree, but the end result is pretty much the same: something new growing out of something old.

Paul uses the grafting analogy in Romans to explain why he brought the gospel to Gentiles and not just Jews:

If some of the branches have been broken off, and you, though a wild olive shoot, have been grafted in among the others and now share in the nourishing sap from the olive root, do not consider yourself to be superior to those other branches. If you do, consider this: you do not support the root, but the root supports you. You will say then, “Branches were broken off so that I could be grafted in.” Granted. But they were broken off because of unbelief, and you stand by faith. Do not be arrogant, but tremble. For if God did not spare the natural branches, he will not spare you either.

—Romans 11:17-21 (TNIV)

This passage is used by lots of people to make a lot of different points. It’s part of a larger section of scripture, Romans 9-11, that many in the Calvinist tradition consider the linchpin of their argument for individual predestination—the belief that only those handpicked by God for eternal life have any real hope of salvation. The rest, are (depending on what kind of Calvinist you are) either predestined to hell or simply passed over. This is what I used to take from this passage. Never mind the fact that Paul is quick to point out that the original branches, which represent ancient Israel, were only broken off because of their “unbelief.”

Among evangelicals, there are at least two major views on the relationship between Christians and Jews—and both camps appeal to Romans 11:17-21 for support. One camp argues there is a clear distinction between Israel and the church. The church, they say, is sort of a parentheses or interlude in the middle of God’s dealings with his chosen people, Israel. This view emerged in more or less its current form back in the 19th century, and it gave rise to Christian Zionism, a unique blend of theology and foreign policy.

The other camp argues that the church has replaced Israel; the church is the new Israel and baptism is the new circumcision (and pork is the new lamb, presumably). Ancient Israel had its chance and blew it, according to this view. And now the distinction of being the “chosen people” has been transferred to this thing called the church.

And of course, there are plenty of nuances to both views and many good efforts to arrive at some sort of middle ground between the two. But in the end, I think both camps miss the point of Romans 11:17-21. Maybe if we pay better attention to the analogy Paul uses, we can avoid making the same mistake.

In horticulture, grafting is done for a number of reasons: to increase fruit yield; to create new, hybrid breeds; to improve plant hardiness; to repair damage… the list goes on. Whatever the reason, grafting is a lot like God’s idea of marriage: two things, previously separate, becoming one.

Saying either that the church is totally separate from ancient Israel or that it has replaced Israel as God’s chosen people both lead to the same conclusion: missing out on a big part of our heritage.

If, on the one hand, we reduce the church to a mere parentheses in between God’s dealings with Israel, then for those of us in the Christian tradition, the Hebrew scriptures are of little use aside from their historical value. And the church—God’s best plan for putting his love on display—will be reduced to a mere historical footnote. We may even forget the redemptive role we have to play in this world and waste our time with lesser things.

On the other hand, if we say that we have replaced God’s formerly chosen people, then like the wild branches in Paul’s analogy, we’re in danger of thinking ourselves superior. We might forget that we’re building on a foundation someone else laid for us. We may end up making the same mistake that some Jews made in Jesus’ day, thinking their lineage gave them an all-access pass to God’s kingdom (Matthew 3:9-10).

The good news of Romans 11:17-21 is that as Christians, the Hebrew tradition is our tradition. Their promised blessings are our promised blessings.

But the even better news of Romans 11 is that God’s economy does not operate according to the principle of the zero-sum game. Just as God always meant to extend his blessing beyond the original “chosen people” (Genesis 12:3), our blessing does not have to come at the expense of theirs (Romans 11:30-32).

There is room in God’s kingdom for all of us.

blessed is this world…

One of the projects I’ve been working on lately has had me spending lots of time in the beatitudes. And I’ve been struck by other-worldly they aren’t:

For the poor: “Theirs is the kingdom of heaven…”

For the meek: “They will inherit the earth…”

And for the persecuted, again for good measure: “Theirs is the kingdom of heaven…”

Luke is even more down-to-earth in his rendition of the beatitudes. “Blessed are you who are poor,” he writes. Not just those who are poor in spirit. And, “Blessed are you who hunger now.”

According to Jesus, the kingdom of heaven is not just a distant promise for the persecuted and the poor. It’s meant to be a present reality, affecting their lives in the here and now.

According to Jesus, the inheritance of the meek is not a pile of heavenly riches. It’s the earth—this world. In Greek, the word for earth is the same as the word for “ground” or even “dirt.”

All of this begs the question: If Jesus meant for the poor, the meek, the hungry, and the persecuted to experience blessing now, exactly how is this supposed to happen? Who will bring for them the kingdom of heaven, the earth, and satisfaction for body and soul?

Maybe it’s our job. Maybe, when we see to it the needs of the poor are met, we bring a little bit of God’s kingdom to earth. Maybe, when we defend the rights of the meek (read: powerless), we carve out a small piece of earth for them. Maybe, when we give food to the hungry, we bring more than just physical sustenance.

Come to think of it, maybe all of the beatitudes have a present (and not just a future) dimension to them. Maybe those who mourn are comforted and the pure in heart see God whenever we live up to our calling to be the hands and feet of Jesus.

To be sure, Jesus at times speaks of “reward in heaven.” But for ancient Jews who, like Jesus, believed in the afterlife, the line between this life and the next was blurry at best. Eternal life was something that began not the moment you died, but the moment you entered into a relationship with God.

The kingdom of heaven is a blessing that lasts for eternity. But according to Jesus, you don’t have to wait till you die to enjoy this blessing—or to share it with others.

some things matter more than others

Flipping through my Bible this afternoon (actually, using an online Bible search tool, but somehow that just doesn’t sound the same), I came across this passage, which I’m sure I’ve read a thousand times before:

Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You give a tenth of your spices—mint, dill and cumin. But you have neglected the more important matters of the law—justice, mercy and faithfulness. You should have practiced the latter, without neglecting the former.

— Matthew 23:23 (TNIV)

Some translations have it as the “weightier matters of the law.”

In the Hebrew scriptures, there were 613 commands… a lot to keep track of, if you were Jewish. Rabbis spent countless hours debating which laws were more important than others—which laws were “greater” and which were “lesser.” Which were “heavier” and which were “lighter.” After all, a comprehensive list, sorted by order of importance, might come in handy, should you find yourself in a situation where obeying one law requires you to break another.

What should you do, for example (assuming that you’re an observant Jew living in ancient Israel) if someone’s donkey collapses under a heavy load… on a Sabbath? On the one hand, you would be obeying Exodus 23:5 (not to mention Leviticus 19:18) if you lent a hand. On the other hand, by doing so you would violate Exodus 20:8-11. Dilemma.

How do you decide which law to keep and which to violate? Do you go by whichever passage is longer? Whichever has more verses? (Probably not the best method of deciding if you’re an ancient Jew, since your scroll wouldn’t have had verse numbers…)

Do you choose not to help, because the command about not working on the Sabbath was obviously more important, since it made it into the Ten Commandments, while the precise words “love your neighbor” did not?

You could ask some trusted rabbis, but you might not get the same answer twice. The good news is, pretty much everybody agreed that “love the Lord your God” was the greatest command. The bad news is, that’s where the agreement ended.

Some rabbis thought that “you shall have no other gods” was the next greatest command. Others said is was “keep the Sabbath.” Still others nominated “love your neighbor” for the distinction of “number two command in the Bible.”

Jesus weighs into the debate in Matthew 22:37-39, siding squarely with the “love your neighbor” camp—with a twist, of course. He says that the second greatest command in all of scripture is like the first. In other words, you cannot truly love God unless you love your neighbor. All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commands, Jesus taught.

Well, that’s nothing new. In fact, I think I’ve blogged about it before. Possibly more than once. (Can you say “one trick pony”?) But slightly less well known is Jesus’ rant in the very next chapter. Jesus works himself into a frenzy, directed at the religious establishment. Seven times he pronounces a “woe” upon them—which the Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary says is a word “used to express grief, regret, or distress.” Um, that’s putting it mildly, especially when you read the content of Jesus’ seven woes. Not very nice stuff.

But it’s woe #4 that caught my attention today. The Pharisees and teachers of the law measured out even their tiniest spices to make sure they gave the required ten percent—not an ounce less (and presumably, knowing their hearts, not an ounce more). The problem is, at this point they wiped their hands in satisfaction, thinking they’d done their bit to stay in God’s good books.

Jesus accuses them of getting their priorities out of whack—obsessing with the most obscure minutiae of the law while completely forgetting about the “weightier matters.” And what does Jesus say these weightier matters are?

Justice.

Mercy.

Faithfulness.

In other words, making sure the poor are taken care of matters more than making sure your prayer shawl is on straight. Or, perhaps, making sure we sing the “right” kind of songs (whatever your preference) in church.

In other words, freely extending God’s mercy to everyone we meet (which, according to Scripture, is a nonnegotiable if we hope to enjoy some of that same mercy for ourselves) is more important than making a list of who has and hasn’t got their theology straight and discriminating accordingly.

In other words, spending a lifetime caring for the poor and extending God’s mercy is more important than spending a lifetime playing religious games.

All of scripture matters to God—and the Pharisees were not wrong to make sure their tithes were in order, according to Jesus. But what they were doing was a lot like rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic.

Some scholars think that Jesus was expounding on Micah 6:8 in this particular rant (leave it to Jesus to always be interacting with the scriptures, even when he’s ripping into someone):

He has shown all you people what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.

That’s it. And when it comes right down to it, Micah 6:8 and Matthew 23:23 are just different ways of saying this:

Love your neighbor.

End of story.

doubting Teresa

Ten years after her death, Mother Teresa is on the cover of Time again—this time because it turns out she wrestled with doubt. Not just passing questions in the back of her mind from time to time, but a lingering, maddening inability to sense Christ’s presence almost the entire time she was serving the poor and the dying of Calcutta.

It turns out the woman who demonstrated God’s love for the poor better than anyone in modern history struggled so long—and, for the most part, so unsuccessfully—to feel God’s love herself.

Lord, my God, who am I that you should forsake me? The child of your love—and now become as the most hated one—the one you have thrown away as unwanted—unloved. I call, I cling, I want—and there is no one to answer—no one on whom I can cling—no, no one. Alone… where is my faith? Even deep down right in there is nothing but emptiness and darkness…

For anyone who believes that being a Christian means radiating an inextinguishable sense of confidence and wearing a permanent smile on your face, words like these are difficult to swallow, to say the least.

But I think Mother Teresa’s doubt may be her greatest gift to the church.

As I read the article in Time, I couldn’t help but think about the man in Mark 9 who brings his convulsing son to Jesus—after the disciples are unable to help. Jesus rebukes either the watching crowd or his disciples (or both) for their lack of faith, which was apparently the reason the disciples’ efforts to heal the boy failed.

In response, the boy’s father pleads with Jesus: “If you can do anything, take pity on us and help us.” Jesus picks up on the uncertainty: “‘If you can?’” he says. “Everything is possible for the one who believes.”

The desperate father blurts out, famously, “I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!” What amazes me is that Jesus says nothing about the paradox of belief and unbelief expressed in the same breath. He doesn’t point out the seemingly obvious contradiction in the man’s words. Instead, Jesus seems perfectly satisfied with this response. Without another word, he heals the man’s son.

Apparently Jesus is willing to act on faith, even when it’s mixed with doubt.

Then there’s the time John the Baptist—imprisoned at the very moment God’s kingdom was supposed to be crashing onto the scene—sent his followers to ask Jesus: “Are you the one who was to come, or should we expect someone else?”

You can almost hear the frustration—the impertinence—in his demand for answers. It’s as if John says to Jesus, “Look, if you’re the messiah, then start acting like it. Otherwise, quit wasting our time.”

You’d think this kind of doubt wouldn’t sit well with Jesus, especially since he was in the midst of a miraculous free-for-all at the very moment John’s disciples showed up. But Jesus simply instructs them to return to John and tell him what they’ve seen.

No rebuke. No warnings about the dangers of doubt. No list of 88 irrefutable reasons to believe. Just…

The blind see.

The lame walk.

The dead live.

The poor have hope.

According to Jesus, these are the most compelling reasons to believe in a loving God.

The orphaned child who is given a warm, loving home. The vulnerable widow whose rights are defended from those who would take advantage of her. The untouchable leper (or AIDS patient) who is touched with compassion, despite every social taboo against it.

Each of these is more powerful evidence of Christ than the most impressive, well-reasoned argument. Every time someone cares for the poor, they prove Christ real all over again because it is, in fact, Christ they are serving (Matthew 25:31-40).

Those of us who are tempted to believe the gospel can be summed up in a sermon—or that intimacy with God can be achieved through inner spirituality alone—would do well to remember these words from the prophet Isaiah:

Is this not the kind of fasting I have chosen: to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke? Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter—when you see the naked, to clothe them, and not turn away from your own flesh and blood? (Isaiah 58:6-7 TNIV)

The great irony—and blessing—of Mother Teresa’s life was that she experienced her own doubts precisely as she was giving the rest of us the best possible reason to believe in the transforming power of Christ.

The fact that the poor continued to find hope, the untouchables continued to be touched, and the dying continued to be loved even as Mother Teresa quietly confessed to God her own doubts about his love is, to me, the greatest proof that God never stopped loving Teresa or the ones she served. Mother Teresa may not always have been able to see or hear God’s love for herself—but she never stopped radiating it.

Which should make it easier for the rest of us to believe.

Calling all peacemakers

My friend Ian is traveling the UK and Ireland with Rob Bell on his Calling All Peacemakers tour. The last few days he’s been giving a backstage view of the tour on his blog.

The cool thing is how a 90-minute presentation on Jesus and a theology of nonviolence is packing out venues in places where Christianity is supposed to be on life support.

People of the third way…

This is Gamla.

Carved into a steep hill northeast of Galilee, Gamla gave birth to the Jewish Zealot movement, which came on the scene around the same time as Jesus.

Zealots demanded strict adherence to the law and total separation from anyone who believed otherwise.

To them, the presence of an occupying army in the Promised Land, particularly a pagan occupying army, was unacceptable. It was to be resisted by any means necessary. Zealot assassins roamed the streets of Galilee by night, using small daggers called sicarii to assassinate their enemies: Roman officials and their collaborators, Gentile and Jewish. Zealots believed the sword was the primary instrument of God’s kingdom.

From their hilltop fortress of Gamla, the Zealots looked across the Sea of Galilee and saw, on the opposite shore, Tiberias.

Tiberias was established during Jesus’ lifetime—an entire city built by Herod Antipas (ruler of Galilee) to honor Rome’s new emperor, Tiberius.

The city Tiberias was home to the Herodians, those loyal to the family of Herod—those who curried favor with Rome. Herodians didn’t believe in God’s kingdom; they were too busy building their own. Most religious Jews refused to set foot in Tiberias.

The Herodian approach to Roman occupation was to make the best of it… and, if they could, make a buck from it.

Two extremes, literally on opposite shores of the sea. Caught in between, on the northern edge of Galilee, was Capernaum—home base, as it were, for Jesus and his disciples.

While the Herodians loved their friends (the ones they could benefit from, anyway) and the Zealots hated their enemies, Jesus climbed a hill between Tiberias and Gamla and taught:

Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be children of your Father in heaven.
—Matthew 5:44-45 (TNIV)

While Zealots resisted oppression with violence and Herodians sought to cash in on the situation, Jesus taught:

Do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also. And if anyone wants to sue you and take your shirt, hand over your coat as well. If anyone forces you to go one mile, go with them two miles.
—Matthew 5:39-41 (TNIV)

Jesus stood between the two extremes and offered a third way. He rejected both the violent, separatist impulse of the Zealots and the accommodating, opportunistic impulse of the Herodions. Instead, he told his followers to undermine evil with love. Not a wimpy, passive love that involves being everybody’s doormat. But a love that seizes the initiative, reveals oppression for what it really is, and always leaves the door open for the oppressor to repent.

Exploring the theological and political significance of Jesus’ command to go the extra mile, Walter Wink once wrote:

A soldier could impress a civilian to carry his pack one mile only; to force the civilian to go further carried with it severe penalties under military law… Nevertheless, this levy was a bitter reminder to the Jews that they were a subject people even in the Promised Land.

To this proud but subjugated people Jesus does not counsel revolt. One does not “befriend” the soldier, draw him aside, and drive a knife into his ribs. Jesus was keenly aware of the futility of armed revolt against Roman imperial might. He minced no words about it, though it must have cost him support from the revolutionary factions.

But why walk the second mile? Is this not to rebound to the opposite extreme: aiding and abetting the enemy? Not at all. The question here… is how the oppressed can recover the initiative, how they can assert their human dignity in a situation that cannot for the time being be changed. The rules are Caesar’s but not how one responds to the rules. The response is God’s, and Caesar has no power over that.

Imagine then the soldier’s surprise when, at the next mile marker, he reluctantly reaches to assume his pack (sixty-five to eighty-five pounds in full gear). You say, “Oh no, let me carry it another mile.” Normally he has to coerce your kinsmen to carry his pack; now you do it cheerfully and will not stop! Is this a provocation? Are you insulting his strength? Being kind? Trying to get him disciplined for seeming to make you go farther then you should? Are you planning to file a complaint? To create trouble?

From a situation of servile impressment, you have once more seized the initiative. You have taken back the power of choice. The soldier is thrown off-balance by being deprived of the predictability of your response. Imagine the hilarious situation of a Roman infantryman pleading with a Jew, “Aw, come on, please give me back my pack!” The humor of this scene may escape those who picture it through sanctimonious eyes. It could scarcely, however, have been lost on Jesus’ hearers, who must have delighted in the prospect of thus discomfiting their oppressors.

Some readers may object to the idea of discomfiting the soldier or embarrassing the creditor. But can people engaged in oppressive acts repent unless made uncomfortable with their actions? There is, admittedly, the danger of using nonviolence as a tactic of revenge and humiliation. There is also, at the opposite extreme, an equal danger of sentimentality and softness that confuses the uncompromising love of Jesus with being nice. Loving confrontation can free both the oppressed from docility and the oppressor from sin.

Maybe, as followers of Jesus, we are called to be people of the third way. People who transcend categories, stereotypes, and extremes. People who are not owned by one ideology, perspective, or party. People who rise above polarization to find creative, compelling ways to bring bits of heaven to earth.

Two final thoughts.

First, I noticed today (for the first time) the connection in Matthew 5:44-45 between loving our enemies and being children of God. Many in Jesus’ day assumed they were automatically God’s people because of their lineage—their ethnic connection to Abraham. They saw themselves as the elect, the chosen, the predestined. This way of thinking encouraged an “us versus them” mentality that drove the Zealots to violence.

There were, doubtless, Zealots (or at least Zealot sympathizers) in Jesus’ audience during the Sermon on the Mount. Imagine how shocking it was for them to hear, in effect, “If you want to be God’s children, then you must learn to love your enemies.”

What if being the people of God is defined not by how well we separate ourselves from those who don’t believe as we do, but by how well we love those who don’t believe as we do?

Last, it’s worth remembering that neither Zealot nor Herodian lasted through the end of the first century. The Herodians, lost in the pursuit of power and comfort, cast their lot with the powers of the moment—the family of Herod. After the first century, there were no more Herods to benefit from.

As for the Zealots, in A.D. 67, Rome laid siege to Gamla, breaching the city wall and killing thousands. Those who survived the attack committed mass suicide, jumping off cliffs above the village. Later, the Zealots briefly seized control of Jerusalem and ruled with a brutality surpassing that of their enemies. Their legacy is a reminder that violence breeds only more violence. Extremism breeds more extremism. Oppression breeds more oppression.

Maybe, as followers of Jesus, we are called to break the cycle. Maybe we are called to be people of the third way.

Jesus movement: a flash in the pan?

I’ve gotten some interesting (mostly positive) responses to my article in 850 Words of RELEVANT earlier this week.

Toby had this to say:

I realize I’m a day late in commenting, but I have to wonder about your statement about Christianity upending the known world.

I realize it did, but only for a short time. Because it seems, from history, that Christianity because much like it’s culture, and Romanish after the first century and it’s progress was stunted and lamed much.

So, was the Jesus-cult a flash in the pan? Did it have it’s time in the first and early second century and died off becoming what we know it is today through Romanism? Do you see first century Jesus-cult being revived any time else in history? Now?

It’s true that sometime around the 4th century A.D., Christianity started looking more like Rome and less like Jesus. This had a lot to do with Constantine, emperor of Rome from 280-337.

Constantine was famous for legalizing Christianity in 313—after years of on-again, off-again state-sponsored persecution. But this move had more to do with politics than piety, and it had major implications for the Jesus movement.

First, under Constantine’s influence, some pagan elements were blended with Christianity. It just so happens that in the Roman imperial cult, Constantine was often associated with Sol Invictus, the sun god. In the Roman pantheon, Sol Invictus was synonymous with Mithra. And it just so happens that around this time, people began celebrating Jesus’ birth on December 25, the date previously recognized as Mithra’s birthday.

Second, after A.D. 313, the church got its first taste of political and military power. And in some ways, yes, the church has never been the same since. A movement that once drew thousands by undermining society’s power structures and hierarchies now became intimately connected to these power structures. As a result, the church often traded the natural appeal of Jesus’ message for conversion by coercion.

I believe the church is at its best when it serves from a position of weakness, when it chooses the power of love and rejects the love of power. So yes, I think that in many ways the church has lost much of its early power… except for one thing. And perhaps only one thing.

Jesus hasn’t given up on the church yet.

Jesus promised that not even the gates of death would overcome the church. Elsewhere the scriptures describe the church as Jesus’ body. And however much we may abuse his body, it is still just that—his body.

Another idea found in the scriptures is that of a remnant—that no matter how bad things get with God’s people, there’s always a group that stays faithful to him. This is Israel’s story more than once in the Hebrew scriptures.

So while some of the church may lose itself in the pursuit of power, there are remnants of hope—pockets of redemption, where we see God’s kingdom breaking through even today. I think churches like Mars Hill in Grand Rapids, Michigan are examples of this. (Full disclosure: my wife and I belonged to Mars Hill for three years before moving to Seattle.) These are churches where that same subversive, inclusive spirit is alive and well, inviting all to come and experience Jesus. Places where the poor are taken care of, the oppressed find refuge, and justice is central to the gospel.

The reason I wrote the article for RELEVANT was because I feel like we spend so much time arguing for what we believe and holding on to what power that we think we have that we forget that arguing and fighting for power cannot change the world. If we want to do that, we need to remember what it was about the early church that changed the world… and that was, I believe, a God who is for us and a church that is for everybody.

Asked any good questions lately?

The other day, one of my coworkers shared an article called “The Art of Powerful Questions.” Here’s an excerpt I really liked:

Questions open the door to dialogue and discovery. They are an invitation to creativity and breakthrough thinking. Questions can lead to movement and action on key issues; by generating creative insights, they can ignite change.

If asking good questions is so critical, why don’t most of us spend more of our time and energy on discovering and framing them? One reason may be that much of Western culture, and North American society in particular, focuses on having the “right answer” rather than discovering the “right question.”

Our educational system focuses more on memorization and rote answers than on the art of seeking new possibilities. We are rarely asked to discover compelling questions, nor are we taught why we should ask such questions in the first place. Quizzes, examinations, and aptitude tests all reinforce the value of correct answers. Is it any wonder that most of us are uncomfortable with not knowing?

Which got me thinking…

What if asking questions is the vital-yet-missing element of our prayers and our interactions with the scriptures? Have you ever noticed just how many people in the Bible question God? Not ordinary people asking polite questions, either… but the so-called heroes of the faith asking scandalizing questions like, “My God, why have you forsaken me?“

What if asking questions is worthwhile not just for the sake of finding answers? What if sometimes there are no answers? What if our quest for these elusive answers will end up like Job’s? Did you ever notice how in his story, when God shows up at last, he asks Job lots of rhetorical questions, then leaves—without ever answering Job’s question, why?

What if Jesus appreciated better than anyone the value of asking questions? Why is it that in the Gospels, more often than not his answer to a question is—annoyingly—a question? Conrad Gempf once pointed out that Jesus asks 50 different questions in the book of Mark alone (which records just 67 conversations).

What if followers of Jesus are people who never stop asking, never stop wondering, never stop exploring? The disciples asked Jesus plenty of questions—dumb questions, not-so-dumb questions…. Either way, they kept on asking, right up to the moment Jesus caught a ride back to heaven (Acts 1:6).

What if we’ve made an idol out of having all the right answers? Are we addicted to black-and-white, either-or thinking? And does this get in the way of knowing God?

What if God is more interested in followers who ask the right questions than those who have all the answers? Maybe this is why asking good questions—not having good answers—was the foundation of the Jewish educational experience. Scientist Isidor Isaac Rabi once said when he came home from school each day, his Jewish mother never asked, “What did you learn today?” Instead she wanted to know, “Did you ask any good questions today?” What if God delights in a good, honest question?

What if that’s the difference between understanding faith as a destination and seeing it as a journey, as a process of exploration and discovery? Maybe that’s why the writers of the Bible loved using “walk” as a metaphor for our relationship with God.

Maybe…