Law and Love, Text and Mercy

Sermon manuscript for Green Lake Church of Seventh-day Adventists for April 1, 2017

Texts: Deuteronomy 15:7-11, Luke 18:18-22

Synopsis:  

Thursday, I listened to a speech by an old lawyer to a group of lawyers. He began by reminding them of their core values--law and justice—and then told stories of times when brave lawyers had used the law to provide justice for the vulnerable and disadvantaged. I was reminded of our core values—Law and Love. The very best stories in Christian history feature brave people who have used the Bible (divine law) in support of love. The Fernando and Anna Stahl, Adventist missionaries who stood on the Bible to fight for justice for the miserably oppressed Indians in the Andes. Martin Luther King, Jr. who cited the Old Testament prophets in fighting against the oppression of his people and American brutality in Vietnam. The Quakers who listened to the inner voice of God and cited the words of the Bible in their struggle to secure better treatment for the insane and liberty for slaves. It is never enough to be only “people of the Book.” We must also be people of God—whose most noteworthy attribute is love. The highest form of obedience to the commandments is mercy.

Sermon:

Thursday morning I was in a room with a thousand lawyers. The annual breakfast of the King County Bar Foundation to raise money in support of pro bono work. The speaker was Morris Dees. One of the co-founders of the Southern Poverty Law Center in Montgomery, Alabama. One of his great accomplishments was bankrupting the KKK.

He began his by reminding his audience of their core values—law and justice. He remembered standing in the school yard as a kid in the rural south. Every day he stood there with his hand over his heart and pledged,

I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America,

One nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

(Dees is old enough that his schools pre-date the addition of the phrase “under God.”)

Liberty and justice for all. Dees says that his teacher, even then, even in that place, the rural south where segregation was beyond question, his teacher quietly insisted that “colored folks” to use the polite language of that time and place, the “colored folks” did not enjoy liberty and justice. And that wasn't right.

She did what she could. She could not change the system. She could not single-handedly change the culture. But she could speak the truth. She could plant the seed of truth in her students.

Dees says he went to law school just to escape working on the farm. Somewhere along the way he became deeply infected with a vision of justice. Justice for all. That vision has shaped the rest of his life. He has been a master of using the law as a weapon for fighting injustice. He is a master craftsman using the tool of law to fashion a more just world. One of his greatest accomplishments was bankrupting the KKK. In another landmark case he made it possible for Vietnamese immigrant to fish in peace off the coast of Texas.

Sitting there listening to Mr. Dees talk I was reminded of our twin commitments as Seventh-day Adventists. We have long prided ourselves on being people of the Book. We are Bible people. We teach our children to memorize Bible passages. We pride ourselves on reading through the entire Bible. Our most prominent distinctive trait—Sabbath keeping—flows directly from a fierce loyalty to the literal, concrete words of the Bible. The Bible says “the Sabbath is the seventh day,” and that Jesus rose on the first day. So, we start at Easter Sunday and count, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven—Saturday. That's the seventh day so it must be Sabbath. It is simple, straighforward application of the words of the Bible to actual life.

We are people of the Book.

But there is another pillar in our life. That is a bedrock conviction that God is love.

For 1800 years Christians took the words of Paul very literally. Paul wrote that God arbitrarily loved Jacob and hated his older brother, Esau. The theological label for this is predestination. For 1800 years most Christians believed in predestination, that is, that God picked some people to be saved and other people to be lost. This was especially prominent among the Protestants—people like Martin Luther and John Calvin who insisted that theology must be based on the Bible and the Bible only. There are a number of passages in the Bible that talk about God's sovereignty. God does what God wants—even going so far as to arbitrarily decide, even before they are born, that some people are going to be saved and some are going to be damned.

Adventists looked at that and said, “That's not right. That cannot be right. How could a loving God create people for the very purpose of torturing them in hell? No way.” Recognizing the profound contradiction between this doctrine and our conviction that God is love, we searched out other Bible passages that support a different interpretation. Instead of using the Bible to support the immoral doctrine of predestination, we used the Bible to support the moral doctrine of freedom and choice.

It was the same with the doctrine of eternal hell fire. For 1800 years most Christians believed that people who did not go to heaven would be tortured alive in the fires of hell for ever and ever and ever. Preachers would cite Bible verses in support of this horrible idea. They still do.

Adventists said, “No way. A loving God could not do that.” No amount of explaining could ever bring us to agree with a just and loving God could practice eternal torture. And we found Bible verses to support our conviction.

Law is a necessary, good thing. Bible texts are necessary and good things. But none of that can overturn the dictates of love. Instead, we read the Bible through the lens of love. When we confront injustice that seems to be supported by the Bible, we look for other texts, counter principles in the Book. When we read through the lens of love, the Bible becomes a priceless tool in our effort to cooperate with God in the cause of mercy and humanity.

In Luke 10, a theologian asks Jesus, “Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”

“That's easy,” Jesus answered. “What does the law say?”

“Love the LORD your God with all your heart, all your soul, all your strength, and all your mind.’ And, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’”

Right, Jesus said. “Do that and you will live.”

But it can't be that simple, can it? In my mind, I can hear the theologian protesting, But what about circumcision and Sabbath-keeping and sacrifices and avoiding adultery and not stealing? What about the sabbatical and jubilee years? I could imagine a theologian in that time and place asking those kinds of questions. But he doesn't. Instead, he asks the kind of question I would ask. “Who is my neighbor?”

I know the Bible tells me to love, to love God and to love my neighbor. And I understand loving God. But this neighbor thing. Who is my neighbor? How far are you going to push?

This is where the parallel between civic law and the Bible shows up.

If you search the Old Testament looking for an answer to this question you can easily find support for two very different answers to this question.

There are many passages that warn about the dangers of foreigners and outsiders and even Jewish people with wrong ideas. A couple of weeks ago we read here in this church, the passage in Deuteronomy 13 that says if you hear anyone suggest participation in false worship, it is your solemn obligation to out them and then to join the entire community in stoning them to death. You must do this even if the person in error is your spouse or your child or your best friend. The point of this command was to keep Israel pure, to prevent any contamination from outsiders. If we take this passage as definitive, our neighbors are only those who share with us in pure, true theology. Everyone else is an enemy.

On the other hand, we have passages like our Old Testament reading today. “You will always have poor people among you. So always be generous.”

The people of Israel were directed to set up six cities as special court cities. These courts were to provide ready access to judicial protection to any one—Jews and non-Jews, foreigners who had settled in the land and foreigners just passing through. Everyone was to have equal access to justice. (See Numbers 35).

So who is my neighbor? Whom am I obligated to love? Jewish people with pure lives and proper theology? Or all the people in the land—including poor people and foreigners? Which is it?

Jesus answered the theologian with a famous story.

A Jewish man was traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho. Somewhere along the road, thieves jump the man, rob him, beat him, and leave him for dead. Two Jewish people pass, both clergy. They do not render aid. They do not stop.

Then a Samaritan stops.

For his Jewish audience, this is a surprise. Samaritans are a despised people.

The Samaritan dresses the victim's wounds, loads him onto his donkey, and carries him to Jericho where he cares for him through the night and pays for his ongoing care at the inn.

When the theologian asked who is my neighbor, he was acknowledging the weight of the commandment. The divine law obliges us to love our neighbors as ourselves. True religion obliges us to devote ourselves to God in worship and to devote ourselves to our neighbors in service. But how far are we supposed to take that? It is a reasonable question.

On one of my desert trips, my car developed a heating problem when I was fifty miles from the nearest pavement. I could go only four or five miles before it would overheat. I had plenty of water with me. I would drive until the engine got hot, then stop and wait for it to cool off, then go again.

In the hours it took to reach the pavement, seven or eight cars passed me. Every car stopped. “You okay?” I laughed and explained. “You sure you have enough water?” they would always ask. “Yes. I'll be okay. I just have to take it slow.”

Now let's imagine this same problem developed on a busy highway. How many cars would stop? How many cars would pass? If we see a car stopped, we know we can't stop for every stop car or we would never get any where.

We cannot save everybody. So the theologian's question is reasonable. Who is my neighbor? Whom am I obliged to love?

It is a reasonable question, but it is not spiritually transformative.

The transforming question is: whom can I help? What can I do to help? Can I be a neighbor?

This applies to church. Who is worthy to be part of our church? It is a reasonable question. But it is not transformative.

A better question is how far can we go in extending the welcome of God? Whom can we serve, given our vision of love and our loyalty to the book. Are we going to use the book as a tool to exclude unworthy people or will we use the book to stretch ourselves, to be more radical as partners of God.

When the Fugitive Slave Act was passed in 1850, the early Adventists faced the reality that sometimes law can be used to further injustice. The fugitive slave act required people in the north, both local law enforcement officials and ordinary citizens to assist in the apprehension of slaves who escaped from bondage in the South. The Bible supported slavery. The official law of the land defended slavery. But the principle of love said otherwise. What would Adventists do? I'm pleased to say Adventists publicly declared their intention to defy the law. They aided the slaves in their escapes. They refused to cooperate with the law and law enforcement officials in the practice of injustice.

May God give us courage and wisdom to continue to push forward in our twin devotions to the book and to God, to the law and to love. Let's pledge ourselves to cooperate with God in his radical generosity. Let's use law and the Bible as instruments of righteousness and never as weapons against the vulnerable and disadvantaged.

A Secret Place

Manuscript for Green Lake Church of Seventh-day Adventists for Sabbath, March 25, 2017

Texts: A Secret Place Psalm 91:1-12, 2 Samuel 22:2-3, Psalm 61:2-4,

Revelation 3:7-12

The LORD is my rock and my fortress.

He is my savior and my rock,

in him I find protection.

God is my shield,

the power that saves me.

He is my stronghold,

my refuge,

my savior.

2 Samuel 22:2-3

God is my rock.

Imagine a vast desert plain. Sand and rock fragments stretching away for miles. It's two in the afternoon. The air temperature is over a hundred degrees. The ground temperature—who knows? We've been trekking since sunrise. The water in our packs is warm. Our muscles are aching. But just a half mile away jutting up from the vast, bleak plain is an immense, angular bulk of limestone. We know that on the far side, facing north, there is a shallow cave and at the back of the cave there is a seep, a tiny spring.

We talk to our legs. We can do this. Come on boys. Don't fail us now. Fifteen minutes max and we will be there.

We make it to rock. We trudge around the west side, then into the shade on the north side, and finally step into the little cave. Ah! Loveliness beyond words. All the heat of the morning, the relentless glare, the desperate weariness in our legs--for now, gone. We rest in the shelter of the rock.

Safe. Secure. Okay. This is the vision of God, our rock.

I like the KJV language at the beginning of Psalm 91:

He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.

I imagine that secret cave on the dark side of the rock. In that secret place there is always a cool shadow, protection from the fierce heat of desert sun. It's always there. It may take effort to find it. It may take struggle to get ourselves to that secret place, that hidden sanctuary. But we know it is there. Waiting. Hope for the rest in that place sustains us in our journey.

God is our rock and fortress.

God is our secret place, our sanctuary.

Another Psalm:

From the ends of the earth, I cry to you for help when my heart is overwhelmed.

Lead me to the towering rock of safety,

for you are my safe refuge, a fortress where my enemies cannot reach me.

Let me live forever in your sanctuary, safe beneath the shelter of your wings! Psalm 61:2-4

The towering rock of safety. A fortress where my enemies cannot reach me.

Let's imagine again that great rock surrounded by vast miles of hot sand and jagged rocks. In this vision, the sun is till beating down. The heat is oppressive like it was in the first vision. But now let's add salt bush and creosote bushes and rattlesnakes lurking in the bushes and behind rocks. We have to watch every step. If we sit down we have to keep our eyes open for scorpions. Then there are the flies. Big, biting flies. We are constantly on the alert. We slap your neck if there is the slightest wrinkle of breeze on our skin, thinking it is a fly landing.

Enemies. This desert place is actively hostile. This is no leisurely Sabbath afternoon walk. It is a daring traverse of a terrifying landscape.

We dream of the shade of the rock. And of the dark cave away from the flies. We dream of the smooth bare slick rock where there are no hiding places for scorpions, no danger of unseen snakes.

Finally, we are there. We clamber up the toe of the massive limestone and into the secret place, the sanctuary. And sure enough, there are no flies. No scorpions. No rattlesnakes. The cave is a clean, cool alcove. We drop our packs and rest.

Keep that picture in mind as we read again the words of Psalm 61.

From the ends of the earth, I cry to you for help when my heart is overwhelmed.

Lead me to the towering rock of safety,

for you are my safe refuge, a fortress where my enemies cannot reach me.

Let me live forever in your sanctuary, safe beneath the shelter of your wings! Psalm 61:2-4

Sitting there safe and secure in the sanctuary in the rock we never want to leave. “Let me live here forever!”

The LORD is my rock and my fortress.

He is my savior and my rock,

in him I find protection.

God is my shield,

the power that saves me.

He is my stronghold,

my refuge,

my savior.

This is faith. This is our song, the foundation of our worship. God is our rock. Our refuge. Our fortress providing shelter from the enemies. Our sanctuary.

I have friends whose lives are touching testimonies to power of this faith. People who stubbornly practice compassion and integrity and do so out of the strength they cultivate by frequenting the secret place in the Rock of God. The service they give in this world is fueled by their connection with another world. They regularly take refuge in God and from that refuge go again and again into the real world to offer aid and service.

I'm reading a book now by a writer whose focus is social justice—or I should say, social injustice. Frequently, he reminds his readers that he rejects all magic—and he means by that  primarily religion. His parents were not religious. He is not religious. He sees religion as mere fancy, as magic in the dismissive sense of the word.

While there is much to admire in his hardheaded, clear-eyed confrontation with the reality of human failing, human evil, I am struck with the bleakness of his world. He measures his strength against the magnitude of injustice and oppression and the comparison leaves him puny, vulnerable, impotent.

This bleak vision is understandable. Even reasonable.

I imagine him trudging across the vast, barren desert populated by rattlesnakes, scorpions, and biting flies. Pushing forward is the only option. There is no resting place. And he has no certain goal, no confidence that there even is a refuge, a shelter. I respect his courage. But it seems to me the trip is better with hope.

Many of us have also found ourselves trudging across a bleak, hostile landscape. It's tough. I do not, for one second make light of the difficulties. I don't make light of the pain. Still, I honor those who have found fresh courage precisely because of their certainty that

The LORD is my rock and my fortress.

He is my savior and my rock,

in him I find protection.

God is my shield,

the power that saves me.

He is my stronghold,

my refuge,

my savior.

It is our privilege as the community of Jesus, as a fellowship devoted to the kingdom of heaven to keep alive this hope.

As I was writing this on Thursday afternoon, Karin called from home with news about one of our neighbors. The husband is a logger. He and I joke together about our women's—our wives' and daughters' obsession with horses. And work together to enable their obsession. He is strong and competent. He earns a good living. . . .

Or did. . . .

A few weeks ago he was diagnosed with an aggressive, incurable cancer. The prognosis is dark and brief. Already he is unable to work.

Suddenly, they have entered a desert. The wife has always gotten her health insurance through her husband's employment. But now, he is unemployed, unemployable. Their life has been based on two incomes. Now there is only one. They had plans for the future that included good health for both of them. That future no longer exists.

They have entered a vast, bleak landscape where navigation is uncertain and the risks are large and menacing.

The wife is a person of faith. She thanks God for a few blessings that have come her way in this catastrophe. She is going to need more blessings. She is sure God will sustain her—and them. She's going to need the help, no doubt about it. The earthly rock in her life—her husband—is not a rock any more.

The rock of financial security is gone.

The rock of health insurance is gone.

The rock of an expected future is gone.

Our friends are facing a difficult traverse. She will do better because she has learned to take refuge in the secret place. Her life is conditioned by sweet communion with God.

God is not a substitute for health insurance and income and living people. We need to do what we can to care for one another, to make sure all have access to ordinary necessities. Still, no matter how well we arrange our personal lives and our life together as a society, we come to the end of our resources and we find ourselves in the desert.

In the last few weeks I've participated in funerals for people who died too soon, people who had not lived out their years. Families thrust suddenly into the desert of grief and loss.

In both cases, the families found a measure of help in navigating this stark, bleak desert in the Great Rock of God.

I am reminded of the words of Isaiah 25:

You, O Lord, are a tower of refuge for the poor,

a tower of refuge for the needy in distress.

You are a refuge from the storm and a shelter from the heat.

You are as the shade of a cloud cooling relentless.

In Jerusalem, the LORD of Heaven's Armies will spread a wonderful feast for all the people of the world. It will be a delicious banquet. God he will remove the shroud of gloom, the shadow of death that hangs over the earth.

He will swallow up death forever! The Sovereign LORD will wipe away all tears.

There are many small places of refuge in our world.

Money in a savings account.

A happy marriage.

Healthy kids.

A good job, a solid career.

Good health.

Health insurance for those times when our health fails.

These are all wonderful assets. We are glad for them. But the day will come when every one of these wonderful assets will fail. Money, health, happiness, friends—nothing lasts forever in this world. Our lives end. Or the lives of those we love and count on.

That is when it is most precious to have the words of the prophets alive in our minds.

God will remove the shroud of gloom, the shadow of death that hangs over the earth.

God is my rock and fortress
He is my savior and my rock
in him I find protection
God is my shield
the power that saves me.
God is my stronghold
my refuge
my savior.

I will add a gentle word of exhortation here.

One implication of this picture of God as the Rock is the reality that to enjoy the benefit, we have to move. When we speak of God as shepherd, we imagine God out in the wilderness searching for the lost sheep. When we picture God as father or mother, we imagine God actively anticipating or providing for the needs of the children—like any good parent would. The focus in these metaphors is divine initiative, divine intention. God moves. God goes searching.

When we picture God as a Rock, it is clear that we must take initiative. We must hike across the vast open plain to taste the bliss of that secret cave with the hidden spring. We must climb up onto the smooth, blessed heights of the great limestone monolith. There is something for us to do.

We can bring ourselves closer to the solace and wisdom available in God. There are concrete, specific actions we can take. I will even go so far as to say, we MUST take, if we want to taste fully the blessings available to us in the divine rock.

If we want the richest available communion with God, a communion that will guide us and sustain us even through loss and disappointment and catastrophe, there are necessary habits: Sabbath-keeping, worship, Bible reading, music, prayer, meditation, contemplation, acts of generosity and compassion. The consolation of faith and the energy of hope is most richly available to those who build habits of communion with God.

These habits do not draw God to us. We don't imagine that if we engage in some particular religious practice that God will become more kindly disposed to us. But we know that these habits do bring us closer to God. They open us to the sustaining power of God. These habits make a difference for us. They become the secret places of rest and renewal as we traverse the world.

When we make these behaviors habitual, when we come back to them over and over and over again, we take ourselves ever deeper into the sheltered place in the lee of the Great Rock. We become more and more at ease in the company of God.

As we practice these habits of communing with God, the Rock will become our home, sweet home.

Damn My Son

Damn My Son

This story is fiction

And it is true.

Chapter One

Tomorrow, I will damn my son. It will be the worst moment of my life. Even worse than last Thursday. That's when we got the phone call. Eric was on his way home from work. A tree fell. Crushed his car. He was dead instantly. How do you think about living when your oldest son is dead? Every time I push my grandson in the swing, I'll think about his daddy who isn't there. Every time Sienna crawls into my lap, I'll be reminded of the father she'll know only through photos and stories. Thursday was the worst day of my life. But tomorrow will be worse. Infinitely worse. Tomorrow I will have to acknowledge there is no hope. Eric is damned.

I won't say the words, “Damn you, Eric!” Of course not. I won't even say the more polite version, “Eric is lost.” It will be unspoken. My parishioners are unlikely to hear it. I'm sure my relatives and friends won't. But Tom will be there. And he will hear. He will know what sits behind every word I say or don't say. I wish he were not going to be there. But he can no more stay away than I can ask him not to come. With him listening I cannot escape. Either I confirm that Eric is lost—excluded from eternal life, barred from heaven, consigned to hell, damned—or admit that what I have preached in this congregation for the past twenty years, and believed in the core of my being for the past forty, is unsure. I will have to deny the gospel or damn my son.

Eric was not a believer. He no longer no longer believed the truth that he was a hell-bound sinner and that had Jesus died for his sins and offered him salvation. My son rejected the words of Scripture that declared there is eternal life only for those who “believe in their hearts and confess with their mouths that Jesus Christ is Lord.” Absent that belief humans, including my son, are lost—or to use the older, bolder word—damned.

I lived in hope all those years. When Eric told us he did not believe, I resolved to love him more richly than ever. I would show him God's love. I would win him back for God through the richest, sweetest demonstration of grace I could provide. Every morning, every evening, Margie and I prayed for our kids and then for our grandkids, claiming them for Jesus. We knew it was just a matter of time. Jesus would win. Eric would recover his faith. He had always been such a good kid. I remember when he was eight years old. In front of the church, he recited recited the Sabbath School memory verses for an entire quarter, thirteen selected passages from the Bible. As he got older, his teachers at school loved him. Well, most of the time. In high school we used to talk about what he heard in Bible class. I didn't always agree with his Bible teachers. Some of them had fuzzy concepts of the gospel. But Eric got it. He understood the truth of the Cross. He knew there was salvation only in Jesus, that it was through faith in his name that we stand righteous in the sight of a holy God. Eric knew that. Eric knew we do not earn our way to heaven. We don't work our way out of damnation. Salvation, heaven, eternal life—they are the gifts of God, given generously to all who believe. And Eric believed.

My son left home for college a believer. He went to Walla Walla University, an Adventist college. During his college years he became more aware of intellectual challenges to faith. Of course. He read Christian authors who implied that Paul contradicted Jesus. He was exposed to skeptical critiques of the authority of the Bible. But through all this he was supported in his faith by devout, competent teachers. He and his friends went to church, at least most of the time. He didn't have the fiery confidence in the gospel he had as a kid, but still he was in church and, I was confident, still a believer in the gospel. He was saved.

Then he was out of school, living in Seattle. He and his girlfriend moved in together. I was shocked. This was my Eric? He knew what Margie and I thought about this, but we were careful not to say too much. We just loved them. God was bigger than this. In addition to “living in sin,” they didn't go to church. I asked about church, thinking if I could just get him connected with the right congregation, he and Jenn would reconnect. No, he said. There was nothing wrong with the local congregations. Church didn't speak to him. It didn't add any value to their lives. The way he saw it, church was an artificial environment designed to keep alive outdated ways of thinking that couldn't survive on their own in the real world. He figured God was more concerned with justice than with doctrine. And the church people had the other way round. That hurt. I've been committed to social justice all my life.

Once when I pressed him a bit, pointing out the role of Christians in the fight for abolition and the effort to save unborn babies that are being killed by the millions through abortion, he blurted out, “Look, Dad, it's not just church. God just doesn't make sense anymore.”

“Are you saying you're an atheist?” I asked.

He didn't want to talk about it. So what could I do?

I did what any parent would do. I loved him. I hoped. I prayed. He was still the same good son I had always known. At work people admired him. He was smart, honest, and cared about people. He and Jenn married. She's a good woman. She, too, grew up in the church. She went to the Adventist university in Walla Walla. She was smart. Maybe even smarter than Eric. And she didn't believe. They weren't mad at the church. They were just not interested. They didn't feel any need. She was a social worker and served the homeless at an agency in Pioneer Square in downtown Seattle. She had a soft heart. I figured when they had kids, they would come back to church.

But they didn't. Brayden was now four years old and Sienna was two. The kids were completely irreligious. They heard about Jesus only when we read to them. Eric and Jenn let me say grace at meals when we visited them. But God walked out the door of their house with us.

Still I hoped. We hoped. We prayed morning and evening. Confident. Some day, Eric would come back to faith. God would bring him back. God would save my son. How could he not?

Chapter Two

I'm still replaying the phone call over and over. Jenn was on the phone. “Dad,” she said, “Eric is dead.” He had picked up Sienna from day care and they were headed home. Wind was toppling trees and snapping power lines all over the Seattle. Eric and Sienna were three blocks from home when the tree came down and crushed the roof of their Hyundai over the front seats. The paramedics said he was killed instantly. Sienna in the back seat was unscathed. Weird. I can still hear Jenn's voice. Her words sounded so normal. But what she said was so bizarre, so unreal. There should be a different set of words for saying things like that, maybe an entirely different language. Regular words seemed to mock the very facts they were announcing. I keep thinking regular reality is going to wake me up. I'm going hear words that will set the world back in order.

And now, tomorrow, I'm supposed to put together words for the funeral. I'm supposed to use regular words, the language we all understand, to make sense of this—what? Tragedy? Cruelty? Accident? Random event? Act of God? What words can I possibly use that will not become lies simply by saying them out loud?

I wish I could have someone else do the service. Let someone who still lives in the regular world struggle with putting words together. But I know my congregation expects me to preach. It's what I do--putting words around the big events—births and marriages, catastrophes and holidays, and farewells, deaths. For twenty years my people have counted on me to proclaim the truth, God's truth, in the face of all the ups and downs of life, through catastrophes and times of blessing. My job—no, my calling—is to proclaim the Word. Above all, I am called to preach The Gospel. This has been the one constant, the immovable anchor, the grand and noble fact that dwarfs all other concerns, all other claims for forty years. Since the day God appeared to me like Paul on the Road to Damascus.

It was the summer after my junior year at the University of Maryland. The Vietnam War was on. The world was crazy. We were crazy. I joined a few marches. I made noises about justice and peace. But really, I was just doing my own thing. I wasn't doing “seriously bad stuff.” Nothing worth talking about. Nothing remarkable for that time and place. Playing women for my pleasure. A little alcohol, a little pot. A lot of me. I didn't want to hurt anyone. It was just that I was smack in the center of my own little universe. I took care of ME [should be name].

If you had asked me, I would have told you I was a Christian. Of course. I had gone to church all my life. My friends were Christian. We all believed in God and the Bible and salvation and the Ten Commandments. I was even Christian enough to have twinges of conscience occasionally. Especially when a girl cried when I broke up with her. I didn't like hurting people.

Then on an afternoon in July, I was at the Smithsonian Museum of Art. I was struck by the incongruity of the classical artists painting with equal passion and mastery scenes of Greek gods and Mary and the crucified Christ. Did art make no distinction between myth and truth? Was the Bible just one more word, one more story, in the vast library of human tales?

I walked out into blinding sun, crossed to the mall and sat looking down toward Lincoln's tomb. Suddenly out of nowhere, I saw a vision. I saw Jesus hanging on the cross. He looked right at me and asked, “Why did you do it?” I was puzzled. Then I saw myself pounding the nails into his hands. I felt the hammer in my hands. I was shaking. First with rage at this man who had so troubled me, then with tears. I looked at my hands. These hands? These lifted the hammer? I knew it was true. Jesus did not just die for me. I killed him. But it was necessary. It was either him or me. And when it came down to that, well, I would always do whatever it took to take care of myself. If one of us had to be nailed, it would have to be him. I don't know how the choice became so suddenly stark that afternoon on the Mall. It was as real as the trees in my front yard, as real as the desk in my office. I was there. I felt the hammer. I heard his voice. His eyes held mine. I could either own my sin and guilt, acknowledge the hammer in my hand, and then let it go into the grace that flowed from the cross or I could deny it. I could protest my innocence and keep the hammer in my hand.

I can't tell this story. People would think I'm crazy. It's not credible. No one else at the mall that afternoon saw and heard. It was completely subjective, inward. But to speak honestly of my experience—it was real. And my entire life since then is the outworking of that moment.

I have friends who preach the gospel because they have clearly understood the writings of the Apostle Paul. They know that Jesus Christ died for sinners. They know that our guilt has been laid on the Lamb of God, that through faith in the name of Jesus we are freed from guilt and condemnation and brought into eternal life. They know this from the text of the Bible. They are scholars. In seminary they mastered Greek and became knowledgeable in systematic theology. They are well-schooled in the Gospel, well-equipped to preach the Word. I am honored to be part of their company.

I, too, know the words of Paul in English and in Greek. I, too, have read the works of the Protestant reformers and of modern scholars like Stott and Piper and Platinga and Wright. I appreciate scholarship. I pay supreme respect to the text of the Bible, God's Word. But my gospel is not the fruit of scholarship alone. Jesus appeared to me personally. My skeptical friends can offer all kinds of psychological explanations of what happened that day. But I know in the very core of my being, I know in a place deeper than words can reach, that Jesus came to me, Jesus called me that day. And I have been true to that calling. I have been true to the gospel. It is the treasure which has defined my life.

Against all the modern dilutions and distortions, I have insisted that God meant what he said when he spoke through the Apostle Paul, “It is by grace through faith that you are saved.” “There is none righteous, no not one.” “Other than Jesus, there is no other name under heaven which brings salvation.” “If a man believes in his heart and confesses with his mouth that Jesus Christ is Lord he will be saved.” I did not invent these words. I received them. God spoke them in the Good Book by the Apostle Paul, yes, and God confirmed them to me personally in that almost unspeakable vision on the Mall.

So tomorrow, like I have so many times before in rooms full of grieving people, I will preach the gospel, the good news that Jesus offers eternal life to all who believe. Death is not the end for those who believe in their hearts and confess with their mouths that Jesus Christ is Lord. Resurrection is coming. Death will die.

But where does that leave my son? I have not pretended my family was perfect. My congregation and I together have prayed for the salvation of our children. They have known that Eric was not a believer. They assured me they, too, were praying for his return to faith. Like they prayed for their own children. They, too, have joined me in loving him and hoping. But in our hope and love we have never denied the gospel. We have never pretended faith was optional, that there was some other way of salvation besides faith in the name of Jesus Christ. We always encouraged one another that it was God's will to save and that God was working always to rekindle faith in the heart of our children. God would win. God would bring our children back. We prayed with stubborn confidence.

But Eric died last Thursday. Unbelieving. God failed. Eric did not return. Eric did not confess. Eric was lost, damned.

Tomorrow, like any decent preacher I will speak of hope, but if I am true to the gospel, that hope is for other people. Not for me. Not for Eric. If I imply that the promise of resurrection includes Eric, I will be no different from Joel Osteen or any other preacher who has traded in the Gospel for some feel-good substitute. If I give myself hope tomorrow, it will prove that I believed the gospel only as long as I thought it would work out right for my kids. Love for my kids will have superseded the Word of God as my final authority. If Tom weren't here maybe I could waffle a little, give myself at least some room to ignore the implications of the gospel. But Tom will hear. And because he is listening, I will hear my own words and know what they mean. Tomorrow I will have to damn my son to save the Gospel. But how can I do it?

O Eric, my son, my son. If only I could be the one destined for hell and you be assured salvation, I would do it in an instant.

Chapter Three

The doorbell is ringing. It's Tom. I don't know if I have the courage to face him. With everyone else, and even with myself, I can manage a certain amount of pretending, a certain amount of ignoring. I can imagine it was all a bad dream. The phone is going to ring and it will be Eric on the line, alive, not Jenn asking about another detail of life in the aftermath of death. I tell myself that on that afternoon as Eric was driving to day care to pick up Sienna, Jesus appeared to him and in the moment of that glorious vision Eric said yes to Jesus, like I did forty years ago. Eric believed. How can a dad not hope such things? How can a preacher of the Gospel fail to hope such things? But I know when I open the front door all that fantasy will vanish.

Tom hugged me. Long. I could feel his own agony in our embrace. With his hand he pulled my head onto his shoulder like I was a woman. And I sobbed. Still he held me. Then we wandered into the kitchen. He embraced Margie. Held her. After long minutes we sat. Margie asked if she could get him something to drink. Some tea maybe? She put water on. We chitchatted. Margie asked about his kids and grandkids. He asked about our other kids, deliberately avoiding Eric. But even those questions were delicate. It's not been easy. Sometimes believing children go places with their faith that seem unwise, unbalanced. And when faith—whatever its formal language—when faith walls off grandkids, it hurts. Still, with living children we have the solace of hope. There is time to fix things. Time for healing. The stories are not finished.

Margie set cups on the table for Tom and me, and a box of tea bags and honey and spoons, then excused herself. “I'll leave you guys to talk.”

We sat. Forty years of friendship between us. Forty years of connection. Every time I had been in the hospital he had been there. When I nearly left Margie, he was there screaming, No! When he lost William at birth, he called me. When he considered leaving the ministry, or was simply frustrated, he called me. When he got too big for his britches, when he became too infatuated with himself, it was my job to hint that maybe he was a naked emperor. (I've heard him say this to other people about me a dozen times, mocking himself, honoring me.) I was the voice in his head arguing against the arrogance of liberalism and scientism. (Again, this is what he says.)

I knew his mind. He knew everything I thought. What was there to say? What words could possibly be adequate for this? We sipped our tea. And sat. Together.

After awhile he asked me to tell him the story. He had heard bits and pieces, he said. But he couldn't get his head around it. What happened?

I told him. About the storm, which he already knew. It knocked down trees in his yard. About the drive to day care. About the tree: one hundred twenty-three feet tall, thirty-eight inches in diameter, five tons of weight. About the car. About the surgical precision, front seat crushed, back seat untouched. How quickly aid arrived. The impossibility of resuscitation. Jenn's call from the hospital.

He didn't say a word. He sat, head in his hands, listening.

“My grandkids didn't have God,” I said. “And now they don't have Dad.” My story ended. He glanced up. Shook his head, then dropped it again into his hands. “My God, my God,” he murmured, “why have you forsaken us?”

We sat silent.

“What am I supposed to say tomorrow?” I asked. “Do I turn my own son into one of those freaky sermon illustrations--he could have been saved, he was going to be saved, he was almost saved but then he was hit by a car, well, or by a tree, and now it's too late. So, listen up, everybody. Repent before it is too late. Don't leave this funeral without accepting Jesus as your Savior. Don't leave without believing in your heart and confessing with your mouth that Jesus Christ is Lord. Do I turn the tragedy of Eric's death into a triumph of the gospel by using his damnation as inspiration for some other sinner to repent and believe?”

It was a stupid question. I would never do such a thing. We both knew that. But it was the question my heart kept asking.

Tom said nothing.

“How do I live without hope? I've preached the gospel for 40 years. It is God's word. Paul's word. And my own experience. But the gospel has always included hope. Yes, there were the hard edges of truth, there is no other name, he who does not believe is condemned already, but those truths were addressed to people who could yet say yes to the Gospel. How do I live with no hope?”

Tom sat. Listened. Carried the weight of all this craziness. He raised his head, looked at me. I'm sorry friend, his eyes said. Then again he dropped his head into his hands. Keeping me company.

“My son, Eric. Oh my son, Eric. Would to God I had died in your place.” It was his mouth speaking, voicing aloud the cry of my heart, echoing the three-thousand-year-old lament of King David. He meant them as words for me, but they were his words, too. He would have willingly taken the tree in Eric's place, if God would offer such an exchange. He would have taken the tree to spare Eric. He would have taken the tree to spare me. His own hold on life is more tenuous than mine. He would have made the trade. Maybe he would have even taken Eric's damnation, but that confronted me with the question I had dreaded from the moment I thought about Tom showing up at my door, the question he had not once hinted at since he arrived, but which had screamed louder in my own head every minute that he said nothing, every minute he kept company with me in my grief.

“You don't think Eric is lost, do you?”

Chapter Four

Tom is messed up. I love him. But he's messed up. Going way back he has always had questions. He argued with professors in seminary. He argued with his friends. He fretted about problems in the Bible.

I remember just a few years after seminary talking to him about creation. He loved rocks. Was always reading about creation and evolution and the age of the earth and stuff like that. He had come back from a geology field trip saying our creation doctrine could not stand up to close scrutiny. I remember thinking if he can't believe it we're doomed. If with all his study he couldn't find enough evidence to allow for the Bible story of creation, what hope was there for regular people?

But then he was always troubled about something. Even the Gospel. He was always worrying about the exceptional people, severely disabled people—how could they believe? How could they be condemned for not believing? He wanted to save everybody, the pagans in Asia before the missionaries got there, people with mental problems, babies who died in infancy, atheists whose lack of faith could be attributed to abuse they experienced from church people. I admire his heart, but I worry about his—what should I call it—irreverence? Lack of faith? Arrogance?

A year with a homosexual housemate, was the foundation of another set of questions. How could it be right to require of others something—celibacy—that we—ordinary married clergy—could never contemplate for ourselves. When I asked him if he really trusted human stories more than the word of God, that stopped him. He wasn't willing to go that far. Not then. But that was decades ago. I'm not sure how he would answer now. I think he has less faith now. More questions. When we talk, he asks questions. He listens. He agrees with me when I protest against examples of extreme liberal thinking, but I can't think of when I last heard him express a straightforward theological opinion. Well, except for last summer.

I was fretting over Eric and Jenn. How could they raise my grandkids without Jesus, without any religion, any spiritual sense at all? I worried my grandkids would not be in heaven. Tom acknowledged my grief, but something in the way he responded made me question him. “You don't think atheists will be lost?”

“I'm a lawyer for the defense,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I can get them off. If I were admitted to the court on judgment day, I could get them off. At least I could make an argument that would get a hearing in court. And if it didn't get a hearing, I think I would prefer hell to any place where my case would not be heard.”

“You think people can be saved even if they have rejected faith?” I couldn't believe what I just heard him say.

“Five times in the Bible humans argue with God and win. Five times deity bends to the will and words of humanity. And four out of the five, the human argument is ratified by the subsequent story. The way the Bible tells it, the humans not only get their way, they are right. Abraham argued to save Sodom from the destruction God announced. The old man failed to save the city, but God bent to the heart of Abraham's argument and sent angels to rescue the four “good people” that could be identified.

“God announced his decision to annihilate Israel after they worshiped the golden calf. God ordered Moses to step aside so the annihilation could begin. Moses bluntly refused, and God backed down. Then there's the curious case of the Gibbeonites. God included them in a general decree of annihilation for all Canaanites. They tricked Joshua into making a treaty with them. When the deception became public, Joshua's army insisted he obey the divine decree and obliterate them. Joshua withstood his army. He protected the Gibbeonites. And a later story in the Bible emphatically declares God's approval of Joshua's defense. Then my favorite. The Canaanite woman who came to Jesus asking for help for her daughter. Jesus and the disciples tried to get rid of her. Jesus explicitly told her that he was not authorized to help her. She was outside his divinely-appointed mission. She said, 'Do it any way.' And Jesus acquiesced, saying, 'Okay woman, may it be as you will.' As Christians, we can read this passage as God saying, Not my will but yours be done.

“Sodom was a bad town. The Israelites were idolaters. The Gibbeonites were under a highly publicized divine order of extinction. Jesus himself said God had not authorized him to help the Canaanite woman. But four Sodomites were saved. The nation of Israel and the Gibeonites were spared. The woman received the help she wanted. All good precedents for a defense lawyer.

“Classic Christianity can cite chapter and verse in their prosecution of unbelievers. It's easy to make the case for damnation. But I am a lawyer for the defense. The only plea bargain I will accept is one that leaves my clients alive. Our kids are damnable unbelievers according to the religion of Luther and Augustine and Paul and our church. I defy them all. God will not damn our children. If he does, I go with them. I have no interest in heaven if it is not large enough for our kids.”

I still remember the shock of his words. He blew off the heart of the gospel, two thousand years of Christian theology. No interest in heaven unless heaven included his children? No bowing to God unless God welcomed his children? It was blasphemy. But even in his arrogance, Tom wasn't really capable of blasphemy. He wasn't shaking his fist at God, he just would not let go of his kids. And “his kids” included my Eric. But wasn't that idolatry?

I didn't know what to say. I think Margie came into the room and we used that as an excuse to break our conversation and talk of other, safer stuff.

A week or so later I asked about the idolatry thing. “Tom, you said you had no interest in being in heaven with God unless your children were there. Forgive me for asking, but isn't that idolatry?”

“Yes.” He wrote back. “You could say that. But again, as a lawyer for the defense, let me offer a different take. The dominant metaphor in the Bible for God is father. In the synoptics, every use of the word “father” evokes the picture of a provident, generous, competent daddy. God the Father is the one you run to not away from. In the story of the Prodigal Son, in the end the father has welcomed both sons, and his final words to the older son who is resisting his welcome are, 'Son everything that I have is yours.' Not will be or might be or could be. There is no “if.” Simply, everything I have is yours. This father would rather die than lose his son. So when I say I prefer damnation with my kids to salvation without them, how am I acting any different from the divine Father as pictured in the stories of Jesus? I know the other passages, the Bible texts cited in support of the idea that the God will ultimately fail to save most of his children. All my life I've listened to good people explain how it is that the God of love will be forced by “justice” or “the sovereignty of human choice” to damn most of his children. I've made those arguments myself. But that was before I signed on as a lawyer for the defense. What kind of defense attorney would I be if I took only cases that were easy? If standing with my kids all the way through the verdict is idolatry, then I will accept condemnation as an idolater. What kind of father would I be if I accepted a salvation that excluded my kids? If we are all damned, so be it. But I will never stand in heaven and agree to the damnation of my kids.”

Chapter Five

That was two years ago. We have talked less since then. There's no animosity, but I have been uncertain how to talk. How do you stretch a friendship as close as ours across a chasm this wide? When push comes to shove Tom will choose his kids over God. He will choose an emotional affection over the truth of the gospel. How do you discuss theology after that?

Oh sure, we still talk occasionally. Keep up on what the kids and grandkids are doing. He has sympathized with us as our Nashville kids have wrapped themselves deeper and deeper in the cult they joined. I am deeply perplexed. I was so pleased when our son-in-law began providing real spiritual leadership in their family. They were going to a church where the Gospel was preached. God's word was taken seriously. Grace was exalted. Sin was rebuked. He became an elder and devoted hours to Bible study. Then his church wasn't pure enough. They joined another, smaller congregation. Then the preacher there wasn't careful enough in his exegesis. Then we, Margie and I, became suspect. The son-in-law did not want us to spend time in their home. If we visited, we stayed in a motel and came for dinner when both parents were present (and he could monitor and dilute our influence). It broke our hearts. Tom cried with us. He listened and sympathized without condemning our kids or second guessing us.

Margie and I fretted with him over one of his grandsons. His muscles were refusing to develop properly. They had taken him to every possible specialist, run every test. Still, no firm diagnosis. No prognosis. Just worry. Endless wondering and fretting. Shared pain among friends.

But we stayed away from theology. And for preachers not to be able to talk theology puts a strain on things. Sometimes I couldn't help myself and I would share with him some of my concerns about the swelling secularity of American culture, about the assimilation of the Christian church to the values and mores of left-falling America. He usually agreed with my concerns, but I couldn't tell what he actually thought. It sounded to me like he was simply being agreeable, finding something in my words he could affirm. And all time I was wondering does he still have greater loyalty to his kids than to God?

Is he a Christian? Is he saved?

But, of course, this evening that's not what I'm worried about. Tom is not the center of the service tomorrow.

“You don't think Eric is lost, do you?”

There. I said it.

“Dave, I know the gospel has saved your life and given you your ministry.” Tom said. “I know God called you. I don't want to take away from that. In your hands, the Gospel is a tool for giving hope, an instrument of healing and peace. You have blessed hundreds, thousands, with your preaching. You are a beautiful man, a beautiful preacher.

“Still, I don't think God will damn his grandchildren. Especially, if their only fault is failing to believe the correct theory regarding the death of Jesus. I regard Paul's gospel as a metaphor, one picture people can use to help themselves imagine God forgiving and embracing them. But I think God is bigger than the Gospel. God's hands are not tied by the Gospel—as we understand it or even as the Apostle Paul understood it. I think mercy and justice are greater than the theories of the Apostle. I think God is very much like you. You would unhesitatingly give your life to save your son or grandkids from some earthly calamity. And which of your kids would you damn, if the judgment were placed completely in your hands? If God set up an execution—an electrocution—and put the switch in your hands and told you to push it when you were ready to damn you son, how soon could you bring yourself to push the button?”

In the story of Job, there is this curious bit right at the beginning of the tale. Job had ten kids. They had regular parties. When a party was over, the Bible says that Job would offer sacrifices to purify his kids, just in case they had secretly committed a sin in their heart during the feast. The plain reading of the text means that Job's actions were efficacious. When he was done with the sacrifice, his children were, in fact, pure in the eyes of God. The kids themselves did nothing. They did not confess or repent or believe. They were purified by the magnanimous competence of their father. Is God any less magnanimous? And less competent? I think God will find a way to save our children.

Tom looked at the clock. “I better get out here. You have a terrible day ahead of you.” He hugged me again. Fiercely. Long. Then was gone.

Chapter Six

It's midnight. Eleven hours till the service begins.

Oh Eric, Eric. Would to God I had died in your place. How can I let you go? What good is heaven without you? How will I learn to look at your mother and without seeing your eyes and tasting again the bitterness of your absence? How will I learn to look at my hands and not see your hands? How long will it take for heaven to quit torturing me every time I am reminded you are not there?

Damn Tom! He makes it so alluring. Heresy. Cheap grace. Watered down gospel. Human wisdom above the word of God. Tom makes it all sound so possible, so believable. But aren't all his fine words just sweet fantasy? The Bible is so clear.

Tom can't be right. Lawyer for the defense? Take all the best lawyers in the world and add them together; they are no match for the simple words of the Bible. It is by faith we are saved. There is no other name under heaven, given among men.

But then I replay Tom's words in my head. Of all the people in the gospels who were possessed by demons not one ever asked for help or expressed the least hint of faith. And not one was ever left unhelped. Jesus saved every one of them anyway. Why, Tom had asked, why would not God similarly cure atheists of their unfaith, in the great transformation, at the end when all are changed? Doesn't the Bible promise that everyone will be changed? Fixed? Who is so far gone that God cannot or will not fix them?

Could I be the Canaanite mother demanding help for my child who is not even present except in my demands for help? Would heaven bend to my will the way Jesus bent to that mother? Could I offer sacrifice for my son?

Oh Jesus, save my son. He could not save himself. He did not ask. So I am asking. Imploring. Begging. Insisting. Save my son. Damnation looms. Damnation is only word I know how to say, but please, save my son.

What to do with real people

Sermon for March 11, 2017 at Green Lake Church of Seventh-day Adventists

Preliminary manuscript, subject to revision.

Texts: 

Acts 15:4-10

Deuteronomy 13:6-10

2 Kings 5:15-19 

In Acts 15 we read about a huge debate in the early Christian church. Did Gentiles who wanted to join the Christian community have to be circumcised and observe all the other life style rules and traditions of the Jewish people? They held a general conference, a gathering of the leaders of the church. Debate was intense. Finally, Peter stood and made a speech. “Look, you all know that God chose me to be the first to preach the gospel to the Gentiles. And God clearly demonstrated his approval by giving them the Holy Spirit the same God gave to us. God made no distinction. So why on earth are you trying the patience of God by putting on the necks of Gentiles a yoke that neither we nor our ancestors have been able to bear?”

To summarize: Peter used two arguments. First, the spiritual life of new Gentile believers was just as good as the spiritual life of Jewish believers. Second, the experience of the Jewish people with their rules and regulations argued against the validity of those very rules and regulations. The Jewish people had found them burdensome and impossible. So why impose them on new believers?

Note, Peter did not quote the Bible in his argument. And for good reason. There was no biblical basis for dispensing with circumcision. In fact, to the contrary. The Bible was crystal clear. Circumcision was obligatory.

There are repeated statements in the laws of Moses, mandating kind treatment of foreigners. Foreigners were to have the same rights in court as native born people. But when it came to religious practice, there was a emphatic distinction. Foreigners were prohibited to eat the Passover. This celebration of the fantastic deliverance from Egypt belonged to the Hebrew people alone. No foreigners were permitted. If a foreigner wanted to participate in the Passover, he was required to first be circumcised. No exceptions (Exodus 12:43-49).

The early Christians understood themselves to be the “true Jews.” They were the authentic inheritors of the spiritual heritage of Abraham. So obviously, Christians had to be circumcised. That was Bible. Advocates of this belief could cite chapter and verse.

But Peter dismissed all this with a wave of the hand. In essence, Peter said, “I don't care about your Bible verses, we know from experience, both from the long experience of the Jewish people and from the immediate experience among us as Christians that it is time to let go of this circumcision rule. Let it go, and welcome the Gentiles the same way that God welcomes them."

Today, we Adventists imagine ourselves as the inheritors of the spiritual heritage of the apostles. We are the true apostolic church. And the temptation is to prove our authenticity by rigorously enforcing every rule and tradition we associate with the early Christian church. Just as for the early Christian church a rule associated with sexuality epitomized "faithfulness to all the laws of God," so now Adventists (along with other conservative Christians) focus on ancient rules associated with sexuality as a symbol of their full devotion to God.

Against the clamor of this tradition, I stand with Peter and say, God has clearly shown his disregard for our boundaries. God has demonstrably gifted people outside our boundaries. Single people, women, homosexuals, divorced people have all demonstrated noteworthy spiritual gifts. Women evangelists contradict our notions of "male-only ministry." Many homosexual musicians have served as highly effective ministers of music. All sorts of people other than married men have exhibited the generosity and kindness of God. They have demonstrated God's lack of pickiness when it comes to choosing whom he calls into service. Further, we have had long experience with trying to squeeze everyone into a particular mold. Over and over and over we have seen people damaged by our efforts to make them conform to our narrow expectations. We have seen church rules and traditions alienate our children from God. It is time to join with Peter and say, “Enough.” If God draws people who are we to turn them away in our devotion to anachronistic applications of ancient rules.

The theological justification of letting go of the requirement of circumcision we read in the writings of Paul came after the conference in Acts 15. The church moved forward because of Peter's speech which cited the evident moving God in the experience of the people of God. The theology came later. 

I am going to cite some Bible stories in support of letting go of some of our ancient rules, rules that are based on actual Bible texts just like the Bible support of circumcision. But let me be clear, I'm citing these stories in support of a truth that God has already made abundantly clear in our experience.

In the Ten Commandments (Exodus 20 and Deuteronomy 5) we read: Do not make any images. Do not bow down to any images. The command is repeated several times in the Books of Moses. Perhaps the starkest, harshest expression of this prohibition is the law that states that if a friend or relative secretly invites you to participate in worship of another god, you must report them. Even if the person is your own spouse, you must report them and then when the community comes together to stone the idolater, you must throw the very first stone.

Do not bow. If anyone even hints that they are prepared to bow, kill them. That's the law.

Then we read the story of Naaman. Naaman was commander of the army of Syria. He came to Samaria and was healed of leprosy by the prophet Elisha. In gratitude, Naaman pledged himself to worship the God of Israel from then on. “But I have one problem,” the general told the prophet. “Back in Damascus, when my king enters the temple to pray, as part of my duties, I must accompany him. And when he bows, I must also bow. Is that going to be okay?” The prophet answered, “Go in peace.”

Bowing in the temple of Rimmon was obviously not the ideal worship life. But it was the right accommodation to the real life situation of Naaman. It was holy.

The Gibeonites were a Canaanite tribe. God had ordered the Israelites to wipe out the Canaanites. Completely. Obliterate them. Genocide. The divine order was crystal clear. The Gibeonites were terrified and decided to try to side step the divine order. They tricked Joshua and the Hebrew leaders into thinking they were not Canaanites and persuaded them to sign a non-aggression treaty. When Joshua's army learned they had been tricked, that the Gibeonites were, in fact, Canaanites, the army insisted that Joshua obey God and destroy the Gibeonites.

Joshua refused.

Joshua refused to obey his army. Joshua refused to obey the very clear, direct command of God. Joshua protected the Gibeonites. Joshua did not just “tolerate” the Gibeonites. When other Canaanite tribes threatened the Gibeonites, Joshua and his army protected them.

The parallel between the situation of the Gibeonites and homosexuals in the church today is obvious. Those who wish to exclude homosexual couples from church membership can cite direct statements in the Bible just as Joshua's army could cite direct statements by God ordering the exclusions and even annihilation of the Gibeonites.

But in this story, Joshua is symbolic of Jesus. Joshua and Jesus are, in fact, different forms of the same name, like Juan and John. If we are going be the church of Jesus, we will follow the inclusion of Joshua, not the holy blood lust of his army.

What was Joshua's justification for sparing the Gibeonites even though God had said to annihilate them? Joshua cited the ordinary human value of honoring his word. I signed a treaty, I will not violate it. I promised. I will keep my promise. Joshua did what any decent human being would do.

When we face the question: how shall we treat our LGBT children, we don't go first to some sentence in the book of Leviticus. We act instinctively out of our identity as mothers and fathers. We build a house that will be a safe place for our children to grow up in. That is simply what decent parents do. Good parents do not attempt to squeeze their children into some predetermined mold. They respond to the children who are actually alive right there in front of them.

Peanut butter sandwiches are perfect food. But we do not give them to children who are allergic to peanuts or have a gluten sensitivity. Tomatoes are marvelous. But if your daughter hates tomatoes, what do you do? You serve something else. That's what good parents do. We bend and adapt to the real children in our homes. We don't imagine they are the theoretical children in a book.

At our house right now, we have an illustration of the collision of Adventist tradition and taking care of a real, live person. In our kitchen, there is a whole collection of foods for Joel. High fat yogurt. High fat cookies. Heavy cream. Peanut butter. Coconut oil. Butter.

When we feed Joel vegetables, we soak them in butter. When we make cookies for him, we coconut oil. When we serve him oatmeal, we smother it with butter and heavy cream. Why? Because he is dangerously underweight and has been for a long time.

I'm not going to write a book on nutrition for children and begin advocating ice cream, heavy cream, and lots and lots of butter as an ideal diet for infants. But if someone tried to insist that “the best diet” for our grandson was a vegan diet high in fresh fruit and vegetables I would laugh in their face. Joel is different. He is not normal. So we don't treat him normally.

Since we are an outpost of the kingdom of heaven, our life together is shaped by the principles of the kingdom. Jesus gave very high moral challenges:

Do not hate. Even people who are hateful.

Do not worship while reconciliation is languishing.

Do not damage your enemies.

Practice generosity.

Practice radical honesty.

Practice radical sexual restraint.

Don't be too attached to money.

Practice regarding every human being, especially the needy, as the incarnation of God.

Be a neighbor.

Allow the needs of others to become your problem.

Help.

Do to others as you would have them do to you.

This is an exalted ethic. A challenge. A beckoning. A dare. It is far higher, and far more challenging than mere obedience to rules. It requires us to first understand one another before begin attempting to prescribe how to live. After all, that's what we would want for ourselves.

Let's embrace this radically. Let's practice listening long before we speak. Let's be careful not to prescribe for someone else a pattern of life we are not following.

When someone attempts to use ancient rules and texts in Leviticus and Romans to exclude our children, let's stand with Peter and say, “Enough.”

Let's stand with Jesus and say, “Let the children come.”