Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts

Good news for those who are conflicted, and bad news for those who aren’t. (But not in the way you might think.)

Some time back, a friend of mine at church observed that I was quite internally conflicted. She was right, of course, but she seemed to think that I shouldn’t be. 

[Author's note: I had included some words here about a personal situation. Sitting in Church, I realized that they might cause some unnecessary aggravation, so I left, came home and removed them. Hopefully, I'm acting in line with Paul's admonition below.] 

I have heard these sentiments before, particularly among the friends in my previous charismatic churches. I am writing about them because I feel that they might be well intentioned, but they are ultimately misguided. They are misguided because the idea behind them is not supported in the Bible.

The troubling aspect is not that my friends are concerned with my welfare. They are, and I am grateful.

The troubling aspect is the underlying idea. The underlying idea is that the Spirit-filled person would experience a kind of Zen-like internal calm (in polar contrast to my internal conflicts, for example). This is typically expressed in terms of stilling your mind until it becomes a millpond, so that the image of God can be reflected in you, or so that you can detect the slightest hints of the Spirit’s movements.

Sounds spiritual, doesn’t it?

Though these metaphors sound at home in a typical Christian greeting-card, bookmark or button, they have no equivalent in scripture. Indeed, the more I read the scriptures, the more I see them contending with this kind of thinking.

My concern is that sooner or later, the Christian who holds to the Zen ethic is going to have to decide whether they believe it’s true because it feels right, or because it’s supported in scripture. I can claim some experience in this regard. In short, I tried the former strategy, but it didn’t work, so now, God willing, I’m trying to head down the latter way. 

This has led me to revise much of my earlier thinking, and this revising has yielded much internal conflict. If I had avoided the internal conflict, I would not have allowed the Word of God to shape my thinking. See how skewed things become if we evaluate them by how internally conflicted we feel about them?

So, lets take a look at what scripture actually says on the topic. The following is a brief survey, based on the kind of language used by the Zen promoters in Christian circles.

Be still and know that I am God (Psalm 46:10, KJV)

Incidentally, it’s the title of one of my favorite choruses.

Consider what it actually says. The NASB renders “be still” as “cease striving”, but the Hebrew simply states “cease”, “drop” or “abandon” (הרפו / harpu, see http://net.bible.org/#!bible/Psalms+46). 

The translators did not miss the boat here, because the meaning of the Hebrew word for “cease” comes out of its context; the Psalmist observes the restlessness of the heathen, and the turmoil of life, and points the believer to the sure refuge of God. As we all know, a castle on a hill cannot be moved (unlike, say, a tent), so, according to the Psalm, what we need to do for our security is to stay in it. The heathen, by contrast, were always trying this or trying that, running around restlessly looking for safe ground. 

The metaphors and typology of the Psalm are exquisite, and the message is profound; you will find refuge and our rest in God, so don’t try to find it somewhere else. He, not our internal state of mind, is the fixed point, the rock on which we stand. So, be still and know that (however you might feel about it, or whatever your internal experience of it might be) the God of Jacob is your refuge.

The still, small voice of God (1 Kings 19:12, KJV )

The story goes that, after defeating the priests of Baal on Mount Carmel, Elijah runs away and hides in a cave. Elijah, evidently, is your quintessential anti-hero. God comes to Elijah and asks him what’s going on. Elijah, despite the overwhelming vindication of God at Carmel, is depressed because he thinks he’s the only one of his generation who sees God. God needs to teach him something.

First, God sent a wind, but God was not in the wind.

Then God sent an earthquake, but God was not in the earthquake.

Then God sent a fire, but God was not in the fire.

Then came a still, small voice, and Elijah was ashamed because God had spoken to him.

It’s a beautiful story and it tells us that God does indeed speak to us.

What I find remarkable is that after hearing the still small voice, Elijah expresses exactly the same anxiety as he did before (1 Kings 19:14 is a verbatim repeat of 1 Kings 19:10, the only difference being the substitution of “because” for “for” in the King James Version, but the Hebrew is identical). The difference is that after hearing the voice, Elijah has an answer, or a plan of action, which he then executes.

Consider Elijah’s state of mind when the still small voice came to him. I would not call it “calm”. It looks obvious to me that Elijah is being torn by internal anger, conflict and anxiety, which is why he goes and hides in a cave. My point is that this is the state of mind in which God comes and speaks to him. It is good news for us, because it means that we don’t have to foster an internal Zen-like calm before God speaks to us.

Let this cup pass from me (Matthew 26:39)

This is not a favorite of the Zen promoters. I strongly suggest they spend more time thinking about this than their favorite slogans.

The story here is that Jesus is praying on the night before he will die. He knows what is coming. Matthew describes him as “grieved and distressed” (Matthew 26:37). The good news is that Jesus, being fully and wholly human, is reacting to the situation in an absolutely normal human way. He is reacting the same way you would if you knew that in the morning, you would be publicly humiliated, have the skin flogged off your back, and then you would be impaled on a scaffold and left to die of exposure or asphyxiation in public as your tormentors watched to ensure that they would win.

At this point in time, under these circumstances and in his present frame of mind, was Jesus filled with the spirit?

Emphatically, yes.

We need some theology to explain why. Jesus Christ is both fully and wholly human all the time, and fully and wholly God all the time. How could God not be filled with himself? If you try to take the Holy Ghost out of Jesus in Gethsemane, you start down the short, broad road to the classic heresies.

Incidentally, I wonder if the contentions that Athanasius and the other Church Fathers had with the heretics crystallized on this issue; the followers of Arius believed his story because it felt right, whereas Athanasius stuck doggedly to what the scriptures said.

Consider this: Christ was filled with the Holy Ghost whilst experiencing unbearable internal conflict, grief and distress. Why then, do we insist that the sign of the Spirit’s indwelling is an internal calm. Does God operate differently with us than He did with Jesus? Emphatically, no.

Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts (Colossians 3:15)

At first glance, this appears to support the idea of the millpond mind.

Except, that is not what Paul is writing about. What Paul is writing about is actual or potential conflict between believers in the Christian community. The context is so important, it’s worth repeating in full;

So, as those who have been chosen of God, holy and beloved, put on a heart of compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience; bearing with one another, and forgiving each other, whoever has a complaint against anyone; just as the Lord forgave you, so also should you. Beyond all these things put on love, which is the perfect bond of unity. Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, to which indeed you were called in one body; and be thankful. Let the word of Christ richly dwell within you, with all wisdom teaching and admonishing one another with psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing with thankfulness in your hearts to God. Whatever you do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks through Him to God the Father.

 Colossians 3:12-17

In this passage, Paul anticipates conflict in the Christian community, and he gives us the perspective and tools to deal with it.

Why is it about conflict? Because Paul writes to a situation where believers need to “bear” one another, and “forgive” one another. They would not need to do so if all they did was sit in a circle and gaze at their navels. These were people who interacted with each other in a human way, and they evidently didn’t always get it right and they didn’t always agree.

The cults make much capital over the apparent disagreements in Christendom. Their mistake, which is repeated too often among Christians who should know better, is that they substitute the unity of Christ’s community with cultural or ideological hegemony. The message of the Gospel, by contrast, is that Christ's Kingdom is made up of all sorts of people, from every tribe and nation.

In Colossians, Paul gives us the outlook to deal with conflict in the believing community. He lays down the foundation for our relationships; we should take on an attitude that is remarkably Christ-like and highly attractive. It’s based on a whole raft of classic virtues, which are bound together by love. It is in this context that Paul writes about the peace of Christ in our hearts. So, what he is writing about is something that dwells in the space between us as we interact with those with whom we might not ordinarily or voluntarily interact in a way that benefits them.

Then, Paul gives us the tools for the job. His toolkit starts with the word of Christ, and includes teaching, admonishing, psalms and hymns and spiritual songs (we’re back to the role of worship music here), which are all applied with a spirit of thankfulness to God. 

We ought to be thankful to God because these people, who might have offended or wronged us, are still beautifully made in the image of God. However much the ravages of sin have disfigured the image of God in every human being, they can never erase it, and that gives us cause to rejoice for even the foulest of sinners, including me.

What Paul’s toolkit does not include is my internal impulses; Paul does not list any criteria related to the state of my internal experience. And, it’s for good reason. As I have written previously, the Gospel of the New Testament trumps the Jesus of our imagination with the Jesus of the Flesh.

Finally, though Paul writes about how we should deal with others, can we rightly apply the same strategy to ourselves? Emphatically, yes. Should I treat myself any differently than anybody else? Emphatically, no. 

If the Gospel is true for them, it is also true for me, and for everybody. If I can bear and forgive someone else for his or her conflict, why can’t I bear and forgive myself? I should accept that I will not always get it right, and I will not always agree (not even with myself), but it is Christ who reconciles me and gives me room to live, just as He reconciles all in His new creation.

Good News to Those In Conflict

So, the message about the peace of Christ ruling in our hearts is good news to those in conflict. It means that we don’t have to react to situations in ways that are not normally human. You can be internally conflicted, and still be filled with the Holy Spirit, and still hear the voice of God.

The bad news for those who don’t experience conflict internally or externally is that it is not normally human. This is a real problem because Christ inhabits a space that is populated by normal humans, the first of which is Himself.

For a better and more comprehensive exploration of this issue, I highly recommend Professor Phillip Cary's book Good News for Anxious Christians: 10 Practical Things You Don't Have to Do (because they are not in the Bible)

May Jesus Christ draw our vision away from an unhealthy preoccupation with our own internal state of mind, and may we fix our eyes on Him, who is the author and perfecter of our faith (Hebrews 12:1-2).

Abraham of Silwan

One of the more abiding memories of our recent trip to Jerusalem has to be our serendipitous encounter with Abraham, whose business card I kept. It reads;

Pool of Siloam Antiquities

Ancient Pottery, Roman Glass, Old Coins

Abraham Siam

Jerusalem, Silwan, PO Box 20230

Not only did Abraham detain us for a pleasurable hour in his shop, but he gave us a human face with which to begin to comprehend the Israeli-Palestinian situation. 

 Evie,  Janna and Abraham in his shop 

I have no doubt that Abraham's penchant for regaling us with tales was aimed in part, at exchanging a small part of his collection of ancient bric-a-brac for our tourist dollars, or even for promoting the interests of his Palestinian community, but he did it in such an endearing way that I could not possibly hold it against him. For the fruit of his labors, I bought my wife a Widow’s Mite pendant; a tiny Herodian coin that he had set in an attractive silver mount. The coin itself would have been like the ones of the subject of Jesus’ observations in Mark 12:41-44  and Luke 21:1-4. The pendant came with a printed card;

CERTIFICATE OF AUTHENTICITY

Pool of Siloam Antiquities

Abraham Siam

Jerusalem PO Box 20230

This Is To Certify That The Following Are Authentic

WIDOW’S MITE IN JESUS TIME

Signature [Abraham Siam]

Abraham told us that he was an Israeli Palestinian, whose family had lived in the village of Silwan for at least 150 years. I didn’t ask, but I am fairly certain he was a devout Moslem, because he insisted on reading out a blessing on us from a book with a photo of the Dome on the Rock on its cover (the blessing was gratefully received), and he also had the kind of mark on his forehead that you get when you regularly press your head onto a prayer-carpet, as devout Moslems do.

Abraham also claimed to have been on several digs, including at least one led by Kathleen Kenyon. She was the daughter of Sir Frederick Kenyon, former Director of the British Museum and archaeologist who promoted Biblical archaeology with the firm belief that it corroborated the narrative of the historical records of the New Testament (a belief that has been mostly vindicated by the record). Frederick Kenyon is commonly quoted in his defense of the reliable transmission of scripture; “the last foundation for any doubt that the Scriptures have come down to us substantially as they were written has now been removed”. I wonder how these connections with Christian apologetics would have interacted with Abraham’s Moslem faith, but we didn’t get to discuss it. Abraham also told us of his good relationship with one of the local Christian Priests (Catholic, if I recall) who served at one of the many Basilicas in the Old City, and I have no reason to doubt him.

My curiosity piqued at how Abraham amassed his small horde of antiquities. Many years ago, in my previous visit to Israel, I helped with the excavations at Gamla in the Golan Heights. Of course, any glass, coins, flint razors, potsherds that came to light were promptly handed over to the professional archaeologists for logging and preserving. Did Abraham sneak his trophies out in his pockets at the end of a hard days digging and sifting? I doubt it, but the kind of stuff on his shelves was so abundant and commonplace in this part of the world, the professionals might not have been too anxious to keep all of it.

Notwithstanding Abraham's (unconfirmed) Moslem faith, I was impressed at his knowledge and reverence for the Prophet Jesus, and the healing of the blind man at the Pool of Siloam (see John 9). Before you get confused, you must understand that there are two rival sites for the pool, which I will explain shortly. Abraham claimed he had seen at least two healings in “his” pool; one was of a man with a fever who dipped himself in the water and came up well. I have no way of verifying these accounts (were they true miracles or not?), and in a way I have no desire to. If someone’s fever broke during a dunk in the waters, I, like Abraham, thank God. However, I will note my single misgiving, which was the slightest hint that the pool itself was talismanic. Sure, a wonderful event had happened there, but it wasn’t the pool that was special; it was the person who had sent the blind man to it. If I were to talk this over with Abraham, I would plead with him to see that God is not in the pool; He is in the person of His Son, to whom the pool owes it’s special place in history. We all have a tendency to turn God’s visitations into talismans in the hope that the miracle will recur, but that’s a subject for another post.

We chanced upon Abraham’s little shop at the end of a self-guided tour of the City of David. To describe how this inter-relates, I’m going to have to explain some geography, history and some of the messages I perceived along the tour.

David’s City is so called because it’s the ancient Jerusalem that David conquered and made the capital of his dynasty (about 1000 BC). It is located south of the Temple Mount (on which the Dome of the Rock is built), on an unobtrusive spur outside the current city walls which, being medieval, are relatively modern. If you’re at the Western Wall (the “Wailing Wall” and the geographic centre of the Jewish faith) you turn right, go downhill through the Dung Gate and cross a road. Importantly, the spur of David's City is/was occupied by a Palestinian Village called Silwan, which gets its name from the eponymous pool at it’s southernmost tip. Over several thousand years, the City of Jerusalem has migrated north by a few hundred meters, such that David’s City now lies under the Palestinian village of Silwan.

The Israeli authorities have sustained a well-funded archaeological dig into David’s City and tourists like us can enjoy the findings by a well-accommodated self-guided tour. The cost of the tour varies according to your chosen route; it costs slightly less if you follow the dry tunnel, and more if you wish to adventure through the longer wet tunnel.

The tour of the dig starts at the uphill end of David’s City, over the inauspiciously named “Large Stone Structure”. There is, I understand, some debate over whether this is actually David’s Palace (see 2 Chronicles 2:12 etc), so it retains its uncommitted moniker. On top of the stones that could, or could not, have been David’s famous palace, are parts of the walls that Nehemiah built (Nehemiah 2:17-18, Nehemiah 3 etc). Then comes the tunnel, which forks part way through the caverns to the dry or wet tunnels. The dry tunnel is an early Canaanite drift that previously directed water into the Kedron Valley, probably for farm irrigation. The wet tunnel continues to function as Hezekiah intended, by directing water from the Gihon Spring to the Pool of Siloam. Sharp-eyed Bible-students will note that Siloam means “sent” (John 9:7), and I wonder if it got it’s name from the water that was sent to it by Hezekiah’s tunnel.

Coming out into the daylight from the Canaanite tunnel, the tour continues southward along the eastern flank of the spur. Here, the signboards point to the ancient Jewish occupation of David’s City, which includes a Mikveh (ceremonial bathtub) cut directly into the rock. Of course, in order to unearth these ancient structures, the archaeologists had to remove the overburden, which is something I’ll return to presently.

A remarkably anachronistic feature of the tour was the preservation of the Meyuchas House, which dates to 1873 and marks the start of the modern Jewish settlement of the site. I found it overtly political. Why preserve a 19^th Century Jewish house, whilst displacing the current Palestinian occupants of Silwan? It seems to me that no small part of the reason for the dig was to legitimize Israeli supremacy in the area, which would explain why the dig was so well supported and promoted by the Israeli authorities. We also passed a couple of groups of Israeli Army recruits, who were seated in circles on the grass to receive an education in the ancient history of their homeland. Perhaps there’s a better archaeological reason for the preservation of the Meyuchas House, but it eludes me; more so after hearing Abraham tell his tales.

The tour ends at the Pool of Siloam within the archaeological precinct. Like most archaeology, it’s disputed. Unfortunately for Abraham, the pool to which Jesus sent the blind man was probably this one and not the Byzantine Pool, adjacent to his shop.

I was disappointed to find that the archaeological precinct made no mention of the Gospel story of the healing. Maybe, its because such a story cannot be regarded as archaeology. Anyhow, I wonder if a small plaque would have been in order because of the pool’s significance to the many Christians who regularly visit the site. Again, I was unable to suppress a sneaking suspicion about the dig’s decidedly pro-Israeli agenda. Perhaps it was prompted by yet another small group of Israeli-Army recruits who were being lectured there (in English) about the brave stand made there by the last of the Jewish revolutionaries during the sacking of Jerusalem by the Romans in AD70. The stories of the ancient Jewish Resistance would have been of more interest to building up army morale, than an unscientific tale of the healing of a blind man.

After visiting the Pool of Siloam, we continued through another excavation, which had unearthed the drainage pipe in which the last of the revolutionaries had hidden from the Romans. Then, up an makeshift staircase to the road, where a minibus promised to take us back up to the top of the spur.

Only, through a gate in the wall opposite, there was another stone staircase that led down to the Byzantine Pool of Siloam. It is probably a pool which was dug as part of a Byzantine Church built to celebrate the healing of the blind man. The Byzantine Church was now buried under the rubble of time, but the pool marks the exit to Hezekiah’s tunnel, and there were plenty of trails of wet footprints to indicate the recent traffic through the site. There were no plaques here to explain the site, which is probably because it lay outside the limits of the archaeological precinct; the same reason why Abraham’s tiny shop continues to trade there.

The relationship between Abraham’s shop, and the archaeological precinct, however, was strained. He railed that the Israeli authorities would not let him erect any signs pointing people to “his” pool or his shop, which had starved him of legitimate business. When we pointed out that someone had taken a spray-can and graffitied the words “Pool of Siloam” on the stonework at the gate to the Byzantine Pool, Abraham returned a knowing smile; it was the only advertising he could do. I can understand his frustration that “his” pool was not part of the official narrative, and hence it, and his occupation, was officially overlooked. Abraham had resorted to drumming up business by spruiking at the gate, which he did with disarming effectiveness.

I don’t have the records, but I feel sure that I passed by Abraham’s shop when I was last in Jerusalem, about 25 years ago. At that time, there were no fences, fees and turnstiles, and the trek through Hezekiah’s tunnel was made hazardous by the potential sewage infiltration from the village above (a problem the authorities appear to have fixed in the intervening years). It might be just my impression, but the Jewish presence seems to have grown, together with its assertion of Jewish supremacy. That was certainly Abraham’s complaint. He felt that he and his family, who had been there for many generations, were being pushed out.

We thanked Abraham for the instant coffee that he insisted on giving us, and for the delight he took in showing us his curios and the stories that they told. We took the minibus back up the hill, which dropped us off at the entry gate. On the other side of the road, the excavation had expanded to consume a whole village block, which was something new since my previous visit. In years to come, I’m sure this area will be fitted out with another trail for us tourists to wander.

Looking through the hoarding that ringed the new excavation, I wondered if they would they find David’s Palace below. As I did so, I also wondered how many Palestinian homes they had to remove to continue their explorations there.

My thoughts came to haunt me a few days later, as we drove to the airport past the security walls and razor wire that separated the Palestinian villages from the Jewish Settlements; and as we waited for our plane at the airport. At the immigration desks, we queued behind a large group of American Youths, presumably on their way home, wearing blue tee-shirts with the slogan “Israel Birthright”. Who told these people, who had been born half way round the globe, that their “birthright” was currently someone else’s home? Did they not know that in order to take up residence in the land of their “birthright”, they might have to displace someone who is not on the official agenda? Reluctantly, I recalled that the nation of Israel draws its legitimacy from the legacies of the Ghetto and Lebensraum (we visited the Holocaust Memorial, Yad Vashem, on another day), and I hope that the looming irony is not lost on the current generation of Jews, both resident and living overseas.

My loyalties to Jew and Palestinian, which previously veered towards the historic sons of Abraham, never felt more divided. Neutrality is not an option, but neither is the imperative to deal with the issues humanely and with open eyes. Perhaps that’s the only way forward. I pray for the peace of Jerusalem and all it’s inhabitants (Psalm 122:6).

Who goes up and who goes down?

A recent Facebook post reflected on the passage in Isaiah 10:12-15 that warns us against trying to exalt ourselves. In the NASB, it reads as follows;

How you have fallen from heaven,
O star of the morning, son of the dawn!
You have been cut down to the earth,
You who have weakened the nations!
But you said in your heart,
‘I will ascend to heaven;
I will raise my throne above the stars of God,
And I will sit on the mount of assembly
In the recesses of the north.
‘I will ascend above the heights of the clouds;
I will make myself like the Most High.’
Nevertheless you will be thrust down to Sheol,
To the recesses of the pit.

(Incidentally, I’m inclined to use the NASB because it seems to do a better job of preserving word order than the NIV).

On commenting on Mormonism, the Facebook poster commented, “It is kind of a problem when the goal of your religion is the first sin of Satan.”

This reminded me of a similar passage in Romans10:6-8, which was written some 700 years later. Reading the Isaiah passage again, I think the two passages have something to say to each other (by way of complement, not rebuttal).

But the righteousness based on faith speaks as follows: “DO NOT SAY IN YOUR HEART, ‘WHO WILL ASCEND INTO HEAVEN?’ (that is, to bring Christ down), or ‘WHO WILL DESCEND INTO THE ABYSS?’ (that is, to bring Christ up from the dead).” But what does it say? “THE WORD IS NEAR YOU, IN YOUR MOUTH AND IN YOUR HEART”—that is, the word of faith which we are preaching...

I think that one of the issues that Paul is tilting at is unhealthy speculation about who will go up and who will go down. Another way of putting it is that Paul is urging us to avoid complicated schemes for allotting people to heaven or hell.

An important inference from this is that the Christian life ought to be focused on the here-and-now because the Word is here and now. That doesn't mean we should lose all concern for "eternal destinies", but rather they should not be our principal occupation. If we live by faith today, then we can rest assured that God will take care of tomorrow. And that applies to the rest of the human race, too.



Paul's ellipses are even more intriguing ("…(that is, to bring Christ down)"...). My reading is that Paul says something like "don't try to bring Christ down from heaven, and don't try to raise him up from the dead". Why not? Because God has already brought Christ down from heaven and raised him up from the dead.



This is of principal relevance to Paul's Gospel of Grace, because it's not our efforts that either bring Christ down or raise him up. These are the works of God, and it is our prerogative to live in the works that God has already finished (see Ephesians 2:10).



Paul previously argues that Christians are also already buried and raised from the dead, because they are "in Christ" (Romans 6:4-9). Like the resurrection of Christ, this is not something that we achieve by “trying”, but a work of God. The Christian life does require effort; however, it’s not an effort to secure our eternal destiny, or even to bring Christ into our present circumstances, but the effort to live out the (already secured) resurrection-life in our here-and-now. In other words, it's the effort required to align what we do to the reality of the situation that we find ourselves in, by the Grace of God.



Contrast this with the warning from Isaiah. In Isaiah the "Star of the Morning" tried to raise himself to heaven, rather than live by faith in God. The consequences worked out in exactly the opposite direction to those desired.



So, Isaiah and Paul unite in urging us to put our faith in God, rather than trying to exalt ourselves to Heaven. Our prerogative is not to try to lift ourselves up, or to speculate on who will go down, but to live by faith in the circumstances that God has put us in.

Restaurants without music, and Other Hen's Teeth

I hate hearing recorded music in Restaurants, Pubs or other eateries.

No, really, I hate it.

It makes me feel very uncomfortable and it seems to shut down my mental ability to initiate and sustain a conversation. My family think I'm weird, which is a sure sign that I'm in a tiny minority. That's OK, but I would like to be able to find that tiny minority of Restaurants that cater for my preferences and play no music. Yes, no music at all. Zero. What blessed relief!

I have found one - the sublime refreshment rooms at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London. The decor and ambience would render it a pleasure to drink molten lead but, thankfully, the victuals on offer are infinitely more palatable.

I thought I found another - the New Queen pub near Ringwood, Dorset but when, after a satisfying pie and beer, I congratulated the management on the brave stance it had taken against the rising tide of sound pollution, I was informed that the CD player was broken. It was an unintended coincidence for which I was most heartily grateful, but the prospect of the inevitable repair or replacement to the blasted machine would effectively deter me from ever returning.

This evening, my family and I sat down to an evening meal in Istanbul, which I anticipated with relish. I had hoped to savor the local cuisine in a genuinely indigenous setting, but then the patron decided to impose some globalized, generic Kenny Gee jazz on us by turning on the CD player after we had taken our seats. This produced in me a very gloomy mood, that prompted much chiding from my intimates. As the food had already been ordered, I was instructed not to spoil the evening by inviting a confrontation with the waiters, management, other diners present and, as far as I know, the entire population of Europe and Asia combined.

I would have loved to have listened to the wood fire crackling in the grate and the quiet murmur of the other patrons' conversations. But no, I had to endure some pre-recorded saxophony that I could easily have experienced in a car-park lift in Luton. I began to look forward to the trams rumbling outside the window for some relief, but half a bottle of red provided at least some degree of anaesthetic.

I have no idea why music is considered compulsory. Who wrote the rule? I know most peoples' experiences vary between indifference and enjoyment, but I'm not wired that way. I don't hate music either (I'm a competent hobby musician). I would just like to be asked.

And when my family tells me that I'm not in charge, I try (and usually fail) to tell them in my most non-confrontational voice that, actually, as the one paying the bill, I am.

The Church of the Holy Sephulcre

Recently, we visited the Church of the Holy Sephulcre in Jerusalem. Standing under the central dome, my wife commented that the place did nothing for her faith, and she asked me how I viewed it.

I can understand her perspective; centuries of tradition had overlaid the unadorned events of Christ’s passion with gold leaf. My wife was also mindful of the shameful fistfights that periodically break out amongst the priests and monks who share the church, usually because someone moved a chair, or left a door open.

Even so, if I were to sum up my feelings towards the tawdry hag of the edifice, it would be something not far removed from love. This might come as a bit of a shock to those who desire (probably rightly) to strip back the accumulation of tradition so that they can behold the un-guilded Jesus of the Gospels, but what I see in it is an allegory of the True Church – the spiritual building that God has built in the life of the community of believers.

Just like the Christian community, the building is in parts beautiful, in parts dilapidated; in parts light and airy, and in parts dark and oppressive. Some of its limbs are blind alleys, like the Chapel of the Invention of the Cross, and there are some corners that seem forever locked away. What explanations there are, are written in foreign language (for us English monolinguals), which is an alarmingly accurate parallel to how the True Church must appear to the uninitiated.

Looking up at the main dome

By far the most enchanting example is the story of the immovable ladder. It appears that some time before 1852, someone put up a wooden stepladder against one of the windows over the entrance, possibly to give it a bit of a clean. Unfortunately for the ladder’s owner, it was up there when the current Status Quo was enforced by the City Authorities, in which the custody of the church building was primarily assigned to the joint care of the Eastern Orthodox, Armenian Apostolic, and Roman Catholic Churches. Doors and window ledges were deemed common ground and, to this day, no one has dared remove the ladder for fear of offending one of the other joint owners. How many of our modern traditions are still in place for exactly the same reasons?

Like the Church of the Holy Sephulcre, we have all overlaid our cultural expressions on the Gospel. My own faith tradition is rather Spartan and cerebral; we don’t like bells and smells and we tend to shun ritual. One of our particular failings, of which I’m becoming acutely aware, is that we have almost no idea of community, and no clue about how to create or sustain one. So, this is how I (and we) tend to view Jesus – as a plainly clad, solitary ascetic, who feels at home in the desert and concerns himself with deep theological meditations.

I think there is an aspect of Jesus that fits that description, but I miss the aspects that don’t. The picture that emerges from the Gospels is that though Jesus was radically different, he was still embedded in his community, and that means he would have joined in with the community life of a first century Jewish peasant, including weddings, funerals, festivals, and all the cultural expressions that came with them. Jesus was circumcised, and observed the rites; if he had not been he would not have had the free access to the Temple that the Gospels describe. My vision of Jesus as the lonely theologian is sadly skewed.

My point is that it seems unfair to accuse others of overlaying their cultural expressions onto the image of Jesus, when I (and we) subconsciously do the same. In any case, why deny the Orthodox or Catholics an expression of Christ within their own cultural vernacular, including the bells, smells and gold leaf? As in all things, I don’t think we have to embrace the whole to receive the good, and I think there is much good in these traditions that would benefit me in my devotions.

As I looked up into the central dome of the Church, I came to another realization. Say what you will about whether the Church’s cultural overlays had obscured Christ, but the fact remained that he was still there. In fact, he was there in the highest place, gazing down from the apex of the dome, so high that you almost had to break your neck to see it. Below him were the twelve apostles, and beneath them, set into the apexes of the four arches that supported the dome were the titles of the four Gospels – Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.

The community of Christians might not be united in everything it does, but it unites under the image of Christ, and under the scriptures that we now call the Gospels. What disunity there is amongst us usually comes from a perceived threat to this image, not because we want to supplant this image with something else.

If the image of Christ, and the message of the Gospels give shape to the heavens above us, then the Church of the Holy Sephulcre also gives meaning to the ground below. For, as far as we can tell from the archaeological record, these were the very stones that Jesus walked on as he went to the cross. I don’t know, and I don’t think anyone can tell for sure if this was the exact spot where his cross was posted into the ground, or if his lifeless body was prepared for burial on that exact stone slab, or if that tiny cave was the actual site of his burial and resurrection. But I believe that these stones, or stones like them, are the silent witness to these events.

The crucial thing for me is that the message of the Gospels is not some theoretical philosophy that has perpetuated through the centuries because it sounds like a good idea. It is something that is grounded in real events, and in real time, even if subsequent generations (especially mine) have struggled to interpret it within their own cultural context.

So, like the Church of the Holy Sephulchre, what I see is Christ himself in his Passion, seen and interpreted by the diverse peoples of the world and celebrated through their own cultures and traditions. The overlays are undeniable, but what is more undeniable is that they all emanate and radiate from this One Man and the one Gospel that He inspired.

You could, conceivably, remove the tradition from Christ just as you could demolish the building (which is not something that I would recommend). However, the Gospel will remain and perhaps even inspire a new structure with dimensions and decorative overlays that we could scarcely visualize. What you cannot do is remove Christ. It would be like trying to remove the foundations from under the building and expect it to remain undamaged – the traditions are built on Christ, not the other way round.

Skeptics may point to the disunity in the shabby, old edifice that we call the Church as evidence of its failure to connect to God. To an extent, they are right. Too often we have broken out in fistfights over apparent trivialities. However, the Church of the Holy Sephulchre reminds me that, whatever cultural tradition we Christians come from, Christ is beneath our feet and over our heads, and it is ours to live and worship in the space between.

Hi, I'm Zelph and I'm a Modernist

This is how you can recognize the Spirit of God: Every spirit that acknowledges that Jesus Christ has come in the flesh is from God

(1 John 4:2)

If you find the Bible hard to read, it’s probably because you are a modernist.

This might be something of a surprise to you. You didn’t choose modernism, you didn’t convert to modernism, and you didn’t apostatize from anti-modernism (whatever that may be). Yet, you are a modernist, nonetheless.

Another thing you may not know is that modernism has a history. You probably think that people all through the ages think just like you. However, that’s actually not the case, and the fact that you have assumed it is a tell-tale sign that you are a modernist. Professors of the History of Philosophy put the genesis of modernism around the time of the French Revolution. From there, it took a grip on the Western World, and it’s fruit is found in you, whether you willed it or not. 

The Bible, as you probably know, was written before the French Revolution, which means that it is not modernist. It has an entirely different frame of reference, which is why "us" moderns have such difficulty with it. It’s as if we have to un-learn our modernism, or at least recognize it for what it is, to understand it. That’s also a sad indictment of what gets taught in church. If anything, churches need to teach people how to understand the Bible, and to do so, they need to expose our inherited modernist tendencies so that we can see them for what they are.

So, what is modernism, and why does it present such difficulties to people who want to understand the Bible?

In a nutshell, modernism tends to look to the future (well, the present, actually) with the belief that we are evolving into something better. Christianity, by contrast, tends to look to the past, to see what has happened “in the flesh”, as John puts it.

A more complete picture is well painted in an interview with Thomas Oden in 1990, who described modernism as the "idolatry of the new". His interview is reproduced in Christianity Today here. Oden, defines modernism thus;

Modernity is a period, a mindset, and a malaise. The period begins with the French Revolution in 1789. The mindset is that ethos reflected by an elitist intellectual class of "change agents" positioned in universities, the press, and in influential sectors of the liberal church. This elite continually touts the tenets of modernity, whose four fundamental values are

• moral relativism, which says that what is right is dictated by culture, social location, and situation,
• autonomous individualism, which assumes that moral authority comes essentially from within,
• narcissistic hedonism, which focuses on egocentric personal pleasure,
• and reductive naturalism, which reduces what is reliably known to what one can see, hear, and empirically investigate.

The malaise of modernity is related to the rapidly deteriorating influence of these four central values between roughly 1955 and 1985.

(I reformatted Oden’s list to  “bullet points” in an attempt to make them easier to digest)

Oden goes on to say that a Post-Modern is someone who “…has both seriously entered into the assumptions of modernity and transcended them by disillusionment.”

Yes folks, the ultimate destination of modernism, if we start to think about it, is disillusionment. Which means that if you haven’t thought about it much yet, you’re not a post-modern quite yet.

The second item in Oden’s list caught my eye. It probably describes “us” more accurately than we’d like to think. How many Disney movies have taught our kids to “trust their heart”?

Some people take it to the extreme. They argue that, if moral authority comes essentially from within, then they have a right to judge God, based on whether they like or dislike what they see God doing.

Atheists, of course, take God right out of the equation. Some of this might be rationally thought out (a position that I have some sympathy for), but much folk atheism is simply a visceral dislike of any moral authority that is higher than the individual (a position that I don’t). The latter group has judged God, and found Him wanting. That’s because they are modernists.

A symptom of modernism in believers it their tendency to remold the Gospel in an attempt to make people feel comfortable with it. The “I’m a Mormon ads” do this superbly. They say, effectively “You don’t have to be American, or religious, to be a Mormon, you just have to be normal.” Believers of all types and stripes will also say things like “I know it’s true because it feels true within my heart”. That's because they are modernists, too.

I’ve been on-line with Mormons on and off for some time. I see some profound difficulties with the origins and ethos of Mormonism, especially with its colorful founder, Joseph Smith. He set the agenda for Mormonism, and Mormonism is stuck with it until it becomes something that is not Mormonism.

When I start talking with Mormons, I find that some of them also share these concerns. Even so, some have argued that what a dead Prophet may or may not have said is not important (see the commandments to practice polygamy, for example) – it’s what Mormons believe now that is important.

Maybe I missed the memo about what a Prophet, Seer and Revelator is supposed to do (something other than make known the eternal and everlasting mystery of God, apparently), but it seems that modern Mormonism has no time for him. Joseph Smith does not feature in the “I’m a Mormon” campaign. Why not? It seems to me that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (which he founded) is trying modernism on for size. So, what’s driving their agenda here; an everlasting and eternal revelation of God, or the spirit of the times? My vote is with the latter.

But, the Mormons are not the only crowd to appeal to modernism. I’ve seen it too, in my denomination and in previous churches of which I have been a member.

Consider this; when someone gets up in church to give their testimony (life-story), they usually talk about how they became a Christian. These life-stories are usually interesting and challenging, but they typically affirm modernism by re-stating that it is what God is doing now in my life, that is important. The modernist might react to this by saying “that’s a nice experience for you, but what possible relevance is it to me?”

Contrast this with Stephen’s testimony in Acts Chapter 7. He’s on trial, and the words he chooses to say will determine if he lives or dies. Does he say something like “I asked Jesus to come into my life, and he made me into a better person”? No. Stephen gives a history lecture to the people holding the rocks. It’s only when the stones are going to fly that Stephen finally tells them what it means to him.

You see, Stephen, like the first Christians and authors of the New Testament is not a modernist. He does not evaluate the Gospel by what it means to him, but by what God has done “in the flesh” in history. It only means something to him because he sees himself within that history; a history that calls both him and his interrogators to account. We are not told of the state of Stephen’s inner state of mind, because Luke (the probable author of Acts) considered it to be something of an irrelevance.The critical point here, is that Stephen is not looking into his own heart; he is looking beyond himself (to Jesus Christ, specifically) and that is why he is not a modernist.

I don’t think I have the authoritative take on modernism, or on Christianity, for that matter. However, I do believe that Christians ought to be mindful of modernism, and they should not confuse it with the Christian Gospel, which it is not (as Oden’s list demonstrates).

Perhaps the best way to approach this is to ask “what is the Christian response”? I would say that the Christian response should not be to focus on the (supposed) impact of God on the inner workings of my heart. That would be to affirm modernism, and before you know it, everybody is affirming the leadings of their own hearts, and we are left isolated, alone and vulnerable. 

No, the Christian response ought to be to declare what God has done in “the flesh”, especially in the life, death and resurrection of His Son. That is certainly where the focus of the Bible lies, and modernists will search in vain about how it supports their agenda.

This is where John wants to lead us. It is a place where we can no longer say “I believe in an [imaginary] Jesus because he has appeared in my heart”, but a place where we affirm, with John, that he has appeared “in the flesh”. Crucially, Christianity looks beyond the self of the believer, and this is Good News because we have a redeemer who is not dependent on our efforts to make Him "true".

Nothing you or I will do, say or feel will change this Jesus of the Flesh, contrary to the ‘gospel’ of modernism. God forgive us for ever believing otherwise.

The ferocious zeal of God

“What prepares you for that?” asked my wife, in tears, after the surgeon had left us alone in the ward.

It was Wednesday morning and she had been admitted to hospital on the Monday with excruciating abdominal pains. The diagnosis had raised the possibility of cancer. She was not ready to die.

You see it in other people. You hear about it when it is someone else. But, no, nothing prepares you when it is your own mortality that stands up to you and slaps you in the face.

She was terrified. I was scared, but at least it wasn’t my body that had threatened to kill me. I decided to read the Bible. There was a Gideon’s Bible in the bedside cabinet (thankyou Gideon’s), so I opened it and found Psalm 23. I tried to read out loud, but the words stuck in my throat. In between monumental pauses, I managed to croak and stumble to the end. It must have been the worst reading heard in human history ever, and my voice probably conveyed more fear than faith to her at this time.

The LORD is my shepherd;
         I shall not want.
He makes me to lie down in green pastures;
         He leads me beside the still waters.
He restores my soul;
         He leads me in the paths of righteousness
         For His name’s sake.
        
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
         I will fear no evil;
         For You are with me;
         Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.
        
 You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies;
         You anoint my head with oil;
         My cup runs over.
 Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
         All the days of my life;
         And I will dwell in the house of the LORD
         Forever.

As I came to the closing lines, I saw something that I had not seen before. This was not a Psalm about dying; it was a Psalm about living, even in the face of death.

This week, when I waited with Janna as they tested and scanned her, deciding the best course of action for surgery, I have had the privilege of spending much of my day thinking and reading. I read an entire book that I had been recently given, and on the Wednesday I got through two thirds of the Book of Isaiah. I earnestly believe I did not do it as an escape. I did it because our dire circumstances forced me to engage the reality of the situation that we had been thrown into. 

I grew angry at the mindless pap that the television churned out. Its voice was void and empty and unable to reach into our lives. The glass screen said it all. It presented a rigid wall between its imperious pontifications and the flesh and blood of our trembling lives. It existed to project its sound and vision onto us, but it had nothing to say. It could not touch us. The gods of the 21^st century western world were exposed in their impotence.

The Mater Hospital, where Janna ended up, was founded on a Catholic tradition, and it included an unadorned Chapel, where I whiled away some of the hours during Janna’s surgery. In Janna’s ward, and probably every other, there hung a small, stylized crucifix over the window. Here was a God whom I could worship; one that had entered into our humanity, to suffer and die that we might live. Unlike the proud gods of the television, sitting behind their hermeneutically sealed glass screen, this God not only touched our humanity, but humbled himself to come right into it. This God then picked up and carried away the things that contend against our humanity, even death itself, taking them into his own body and nailing them to the cross where they died.

This thought infuriated me, and it still does. It was that same feeling of frustration as I read Isaiah. My knowledge of Hebrew is, to be generous, rudimentary. However, I know enough to know that our English Translations struggle to convey not just the technicalities of the text, but also their beauty and raw power. In Isaiah 1:2, the prophet declares “Hear, o heavens; give ear, o earth; for the LORD has spoken”. It took me a whole evening the week before Janna’s emergency to read three words in the Hebrew of the Dead Sea Scrolls on-line, and I was amazed at the musicality of its native language. Yet, I could not hear it well. I did not have the tongue to annunciate the words. I determined to learn more Hebrew, so I could more fully appreciate those verses that so tantalized me.

Yet, there was something else that was tantalizing me. I could sense it like a giant wave building in the ocean. I could not see or hear it clearly, and the other waves disguised its presence, but I sensed it was there. I can only describe it as the ferocious zeal of God.

I could see glimpses of it in Psalm 23, and in the voice of the prophet. I could see it in the image of the crucified man over the window. I could see it in the kindness of our family and friends as they offered their love and support. God, whom had called the cosmos into being with His indomitable Word, was filled with a ferocious zeal for our living. He was committed to our living in a way that we could only faintly sense. We can hardly assemble the language to describe it. It was this ferocious zeal of His that had called us into being, and this same zeal had given us the capacity to surprise Him. This same ferocious zeal compelled Him to enter into our flesh and blood existence, and to do whatever was necessary, at whatever cost, to secure our living. 

And it was not simply an existence that He brought about for us, but true living. God’s single-bloody-minded and whole-hearted commitment to our living is not a religion, or a set of parameters in a mathematical equation, nor even the certainty that comes from accurate or reliable predictions. It is nothing less than life itself; life in chaos and uncertainty; life in which choices make a real difference; life in defiance of death, which seeks constantly to subdue, stultify and cow us.

It’s the Gospel of Grace, but in a context that we rarely get to experience. Janna’s reaction to the Surgeon’s bad news was perfectly natural; “Why me?” She quickly recoiled at the thought. She was humble enough to know that the flip-side to this question was “Why not?” The Gospel of Grace tells us that we don’t pre-qualify for God’s love; we cannot earn it; we cannot make ourselves ready for it. We cannot be prepared for it. Like the baby entering into the world through a borrowed manger, God’s life invades our lives in unexpected ways, whether we deserve it or not; whether we are ready for it or not; whether we are prepared or not. Why? So that He is vindicated in all He does. So, if He deigns to act on our living in ways that seem best to Him, why should He also not act on our passing in the same way?

This, of course, is nothing new. The ancients knew that their lives were held in the hands of the gods. They knew their mortality in ways that we have forgotten in our modern, headlong retreat from the thinking life. What was a revolution to them was the news of God’s ferocious zeal for our living; borne to them by the despised of the world - women and Jews.

It was like God had betrothed Himself to us humble creatures, made from the earth. What business had the Divine with us sons of the soil? And, as a man would seal the oath by cutting his own flesh and shedding his own blood, so God had scourged His own flesh and shed His own blood at the cross. This was serious, and we had better take it seriously. We had better take life seriously too, not because we had done something to deserve it or enhance it, but because God had committed Himself to our living. Misuse the life He had given us, or the life that He had given to our friends and neighbors, and it would be His ferocious zeal for our living that we would ultimately answer to.

In the face of such a ferocious zeal for our living, it ceases to be a question of what we deserve, but what we do. Who knows what will come tomorrow? Tomorrow has enough worries of it’s own, as the preacher from Nazareth said. Today is the day, and we will live in it, even if we see the shadow of death lengthen over it.

Nothing can prepare you for that day when you know you will die. But you can say that until that day, you will live. What is more, beyond that day, you will live because God’s ferocious zeal is with you in your living, and it will not be extinguished or diminished in your dying.

Janna’s surgery was a success, though she had her ovaries, tubes, uterus and appendix removed. The Surgeon found no signs of cancer, thank God (and all the medics involved). It was an endometriosis.

It would be wrong to call this a reprieve because we would be saying that death, not God, had done the reprieving. We live another day. Death has receded from us, but God has not. There will come a day when death has exhausted its terrible arsenal on us, but God, and His ferocious zeal for our living will remain undefeated.

I pray that I will never forget the glancing blow that this day dealt to us, and the tantalizing glimpse it gave me of God’s ferocious zeal for our living. I pray that I might find the language to speak this zeal into our lives, my life, Janna’s life, your life, that we can celebrate the living that God has given us, in all it’s unpredictable and surprising wonder and variety.

This is a song about living, not dying.