The reason the real Jesus is unwelcome in many of the religious institutions that bear his name is that before offering us salvation from sin he demands that we first embrace his definition of sin. But as soon as he does that we discover that none of us truly want to be saved in the way he wants to save us. Save us from death and hell, from hopelessness and fear, save us from our enemies and our obstacles–sure. But don’t save us from our pride and from our selfishness. Don’t offer us liberation from our throne of independence.

It is the same reason so many reject the gift of the Holy Spirit in preference to a doctrine of the Holy Spirit. Don’t offer us the gift of the Holy Spirit when the experience of the Holy Spirit makes us feel unholy, when it is like the experience of nakedness, of having our sins ever exposed to our nagging conscience in the light of truth; the Spirit whose very job description is to convict us of sin and righteousness and judgment (Jn. 16:8); who intrudes on our self-justifying rationalizations for placing ourselves above others; who tells us to sit with the stranger and give time to the nobody; whose alien voice calls us to crucify our pride and say I’m sorry and I forgive; who insists that it is always more right to be humble than it is to be right; who refuses to take our side even when it is the right side when on the other side sits a hurting spouse; the One who comes and buries himself deep inside our ego to bring to our will the true gift of salvation–a cross–and tells us that worship doesn’t begin with a Chris Tomlin album but with a custom fitted cross-shaped altar laid out for our self-worshiping will, so that he can resurrect in us a will that is both Other and other-centered, a will that is generous and gracious and impossibly selfless and forgiving, a will that seems to care about everyone but itself, a will whose dreams and ambitions have been hanged on the eternal prefix: “Not my…”

Salvation by means of the cross means the world needs salvation from me. The good news the Christian proclaims is that Christ was crucified and that I was crucified with him. You no longer have to fear God’s justice and my injustice. The good news only sounds good in the ears of others. But for the one who proclaims it, it sounds like a song of lament, like a prayer of forsakenness; it sounds like Gethsemane. It is good news for everyone but me. 

No wonder they crucified him.

“Have this mind in you which was also in Christ Jesus:
“Who, although he existed in the form of God, did not regard equality with God a thing to be grasped but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in the form man he humbled himself by becoming obedient unto death, even death on a cross…” (Phil. 2).

But I suppose if we allow him to show us the depth of our sin as it truly is, if we allow him to define sin for us inside that grand fortress that has triumphantly protected our fragile ego since the day we were born, if we see ourselves as God sees us, naked and laid bare before the one to whom we must give an account of our life–then and only then will the cross become more than yet another self-serving religious artifact. It will become at once the person we never could have been and the Person we so desperately need. It will become for the first time what it always has been–God’s proof of his love for sinners (Rom. 5:8), my only hope and the hope of the world.

Perhaps then will we be saved from our sin. Perhaps then will we be free to love. And in our freedom to love perhaps others will find freedom to love, and then I will become the ‘other’ for whom the good news was designed and will begin to understand the logic of the cross and the beauty of a community that wears it on its sleeve. And if that catches on, perhaps then the real Jesus will again be welcome in the institutions that bear his name and we will become the real Church he died to resurrect.

‪#‎crucifiedwithchrist

Since the virility of a local pastor’s moral failure has already begun, for my part I would simply like to preempt whatever our initial reactions might be with a word in hopes that we would be kept from and inevitable temptations of gossip and self-righteousness and deception that have already begun to arise.

This crisis should be taken as an opportunity for pastors and Christian leaders to pray for and reach out to a large number of people whose trust has been broken in Jesus’ name–Lord, have mercy! But it is also an opportunity for us make haste to take our self-righteous high horses to the slaughter at the altar of humility–to be honest that it is but for the grace of God that we have not all succumbed in the same way in our behavior, since we have all succumbed in the same way in our heart. And according to Jesus we share the same guilt therefore (Mt. 5:27-30). But the Gospel with which we have been entrusted is nothing less than the announcement that God has shared that guilt with us–and forgiven it. And if Jesus can identify with my guilt at the cost of his blood, how dare I not identify with this man’s guilt at the cost of my honesty? I am guilty of lust, and I say so publicly today because I know that to deny my guilt is tantamount to denying God’s grace. If I evoke the name of Jesus, I do so because I have to, because I’m a sinner, because I am guilty and in need of grace. To deny that is to deny Him.

“In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. And when he came up out of the water, immediately he saw the heavens being torn open and the Spirit descending on him like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, ‘You are my beloved Son with you I am well pleased'” (Mk. 1:9-11).

We cannot see as God sees, for the world is a fallen place. The curtain of heaven has dropped. The world seems to us duplicitous in its grandeur and terror, in its beauty and despair, in its capacity to provide for the unseen sparrow and its capacity to turn to ice. Creation is groaning in labor and in suffocation, the sign that is more than a sign that Mother Nature is ever losing her battle with Father Time. Every life she offers up to the heavens is snatched away and carried by a hand that points up only when it is dark. The heavens are dark this side of the veil. We cannot see as God sees.

I recently heard a pastor say, “Invest in people who invest in people.” I’m glad he wasn’t Jesus’ pastor.

I’m pretty sure this is evidence of the growing assumption that the Church’s mission is to ”build the kingdom,” in which case productivity would need to be a priority. Of course, this language of “building the kingdom” is actually never used in the Bible. The closest we get to it is a prayer that our Father’s kingdom would come on earth, so that heaven and earth would find some sort of alignment, which Jesus associated with His will being done. But what people likely mean by “building the kingdom” is “building the Church,” and that language is indeed used; it’s just that the Church is never the subject of the sentence. Jesus told Peter he would build his Church (Mt. 16:18). In fact, even when it came to building a leadership team of workers, he just told them to pray “to the Lord of the harvest to send workers” (Mt. 9:38). You almost get this weird sense that the only way churches grow, people are mobilized, and “the kingdom comes” is when God answers prayer; as though anything we can do for God is only possible if he does it for us; as though the heavy burden of the kingdom is not dealt with by finding “people who invest in people” to share the burden–a burden which mysteriously doesn’t get any lighter no matter how many “share” it–but by recognizing that it is not the Church’s burden in the first place.

The Church’s responsibility is not productivity; it is faithfulness. The illusion that doing more than we are asked is better than doing less than we are asked fails to value to function of witness, of what we are communicating by doing more. Doing less than what God has commanded communicates that we do not take his judgments seriously, but doing more than what God has commanded communicates that we do not take his promises seriously. But they both are expressions of unbelief–one just takes the road of unrighteousness, the other self-righteousness. Both misrepresent Christ, who obeyed God to the bitter end and trusted him even when his entire ‘Church’ had died. Jesus built his Church from 12 to 0 in a matter of three years, because he refused to compromise faithfulness for productivity, which was particularly evident as crowds flocked to him, ready to follow, and he said things like, “Eat my flesh! Drink my blood!”, at which point the flocking crowds, even some of his disciples, scattered like sheep without a shepherd “and no longer followed him” (Jn. 6:66). The witness of a crucified and risen Lord can never faithfully follow conventional leadership principles, because conventional leadership principles are not allowed to account for the God variable. Christian leadership as such has to pretend like God didn’t say he would build his Church and send his workers. It may tell us to pray, but then it will get on with the more serious business of strategizing, and its pupils will take the iron yoke of their strategy and begin proclaiming it like an Amway sales pitch: “It’s as easy as 2x2x2–it’s all about multiplication!”

So what are we left with? The kingdom of God can only be received. The building of the Church can only be received. The growing of our leaders can only be received. Even our ability to overcome sin can only be received, which is why we ask God himself to deliver us. One would almost think that the mission is not the Church’s at all, only God’s, which would leave us to the category of witness, which is the category Jesus left us in (Acts 1:8), so that all we can do is declare what God has done, is doing, and has promised to do. But we are apparently called to witness not only with our words, but with our works. Indeed, we are told that “unless our righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven” (Mt. 5:20). And if we assume that Jesus is just saying that we have to be more righteous than hypocrites, as the scribes and Pharisees are caricatured in the Sermon on the Mount, he goes on to say “You must be perfect, as your Father in heaven is perfect” (Mt. 5:48). Of course, Jesus did not say to “be as perfect as,” which would be a quantitative statement, in which case we would most certainly be hopeless. He said, “Be perfect, as your Father in heaven is perfect.” And he said it just after telling his disciples to love their enemies (Mt. 5:44), which means perfection, and probably such exceeding righteousness, is not quantitative but qualitative. It is a certain way of righteousness and perfection. And it is perhaps that way that gets particularized in the Lord’s Prayer (Mt. 5:9-13) and the following statement (Mt. 5:14-15). It is a righteousness and a perfection that seeks to order a community that does unto others as God has done unto them: to forgive those who don’t deserve it and to love those who don’t deserve it, because God forgives us and loves us, and none of us deserve it (cf. Mt. 7:12). And it is this kind community whose “light will shine before others, so that people may see [our] good works, and glorify [our] Father who is in heaven” (Mt. 5:16). Perhaps if we take seriously what people see when they look at us, we will be able to understand why Jesus did not separate the Great Commission from Christian obedience (Mt. 28:20) or Christian unity from Christian witness (Jn. 17:11-26).

Being witnesses of Christ is not about quantity but quality, not about production but faithfulness, because if our proclamation of the Gospel and practice of the Gospel want to find congruence with the Gospel, we must commit ourselves to the grace of the Gospel, so that everything we say and do communicates the truth that the only thing we can do to see the Church grow, the kingdom come, and the Gospel spread is learn how to receive.

“Truly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it” (Lk. 18:17; cf. Mt. 18:3; Mk. 10:15).

Saturday: The Tomb and The End of History 

The dismal reality of the crucifixion meant that God was dead, and we had killed him. All hope for life was seemingly lost. The day after the crucifixion the world looked about for evidence of life, for evidence of God, but none could be found; for God lay in a tomb, hidden from the light of day. He truly was dead. Indeed, all evidence was lost, but there was a distant echo of hope…a flittering memory of a faithful God whose promise to dwell with humanity demanded that he live. So we continued searching in hope against hope. We searched and searched the whole world over until there was only one place left to look, in a place we had never dreamed of finding God—in a tomb. So we lit our candles and went to search for God in the darkest and most dreadful place imaginable.

Our search took us into the darkness of death. And it was in that place that we would make our most disquieting discovery. Not only did we discover God there, but we discovered that it was there that God discovered us. The tomb was the place of reunion. We knew not whether to be hopeful or afraid. Had God joined us in death to seal up our fate, to keep us there, to declare that eternity had come into the tomb to secure death as our eternal home? Had the promises of God to dwell with humanity meant not that all things would eventually live but that all things would eventually die? Had our victorious destruction of God ultimately meant self-destruction?

We decided that if we had to wait to find out, we were not going to wait in this dreadful tomb, so we turned to leave only to see the stone being rolled over the entrance. We ran toward the shrinking sliver of light. We ran as hard as we could, striving with all that we had to arise from this tomb, but the dream world took over and everything slowed. The light was approach a seemingly infinite horizon of darkness. We may have been stronger than God but death was stronger than us. And in our haste our candles were overcome by the darkness. Everything, it seemed, had been overcome by darkness. God had been overcome by darkness. Humanity had been overcome by darkness. The world had been overcome by darkness. God was dead. We were dying. And the whole world…it was as though the sun was forsaking us. The world had been flung into a starless universe. The war was over and the prince of darkness had prevailed. History was at its end. This was the end.

Today is Good Friday…

Today I woke up at 3:45 am with the pious intention of going to pray for one hour at the so-called Asbury House Of Prayer (AHOP). Well, I made it out of bed and onto the couch. Next thing I knew, it was 5:00 am…

I guess I felt that I needed to earn back my demerit, so I began to clumsily and sleepily unload the dishwasher and reload it with the dishes I had been neglecting for the past few days—one of the few choirs designated to my gracious wife’s “forgetful” husband. As I was attempting to reduce the mountain to a manageable mole-hill, I heard the sharp shattering of delicate glass. The loud shatter broke the morning silence…The cup was broken. 

“They went to a place called Gethsemane; and he said to his disciples, “Sit here while I pray”…And He said to them, “I am deeply grieved, even to death; remain here, and keep awake!” And going a little farther, he threw himself on the ground and prayed that, if it were possible, the hour might pass from him. He said, “Abba, Father, for you all things are possible; remove this cup from me; yet, not what I will, but what you will.” He came and found them sleeping; and he said to Peter, “Simon, are you asleep? Could you not keep awake one hour? Keep awake and pray that you may not come into the time of trial; the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak…And once more he came and found them sleeping, for their eyes were very heavy; and they did not know what to say to him. He came a third time and said to them, “Are you still sleeping and taking your rest? Enough! The hour has come; the Son of Man is betrayed into the hands of sinners. Get up, let us be going. See, my betrayer is at hand” (Mk 14:32-42).

Twenty-seven years ago, April 9, 1982, I was born. It was Good Friday. For the past twenty-seven years, my birth has been celebrated in the dark shadow of Jesus’ death. Every year, as I reflect on the inaugural day of my being raised into life, I do so with the nagging reminder that on the same day the Lord of life was lowered into a tomb.

Twenty-seven years later…Good Friday.

This morning I was confronted with an analogy of my own life. I had one task: “Keep awake and pray…” I could not do it. For, indeed, my eyes were very heavy; my spirit was willing, but my flesh was weak. Next thing I knew, the cup was broken.

I don’t even remember making the choice to get back on the couch this morning. I remember waking up…but that’s it. When I read the story of Gethsemane, I feel sorry for the disciples. Fighting exhaustion is one of life’s greatest battles. It is a battle that reveals the limits of the human will. It is a battle that must be fought with the hope and promise of relief. It is the cup that by human nature must be passed. Jesus’ command to “Stay awake!” is, in fact, an impossible command. It is a command that reveals only the fact that we cannot stay awake. His command to overcome our slumber reveals only that we cannot. 

So this morning I was confronted with the grimacing fact that my life is marked with the slumber of my own sin. My willing and well-meaning spirit is repressed by weak and tired flesh. There are many today who talk about Jesus as though he came only to show us how to live, that his primary role was exemplar…not Savior. But I find, at least in honest reflection, that the life of Christ is not merely an example to follow, because, quite frankly, we cannot follow his example. If we say we can, we lie (1 John). I think one of the reasons Christ calls us to follow Him is to show us that we cannot. We stumble behind him, napping along the way. But he calls us, nonetheless. He calls us to take up our cross. He calls us to follow him to Calvary. He calls us to be crucified with him. He calls us to drink of the cup that’s been handed to us… But when we arrive at Calvary, we discover that only He is crucified. Our cups are broken. 

It is fitting to be born on Good Friday, because it illustrates something about human life. It illustrates that “human life” is a contradiction in terms. Human life is an impossible achievement, because human life is marked by human death. To be born is to die. The curse of Good Friday is the inevitable fate we all share. Jesus’ command to “Stay awake!” is really a command to “Stay alive!”…but we cannot. The truth is, we need Jesus to stay awake for us. We need Jesus to stay alive for us. The mysterious cup that was given Jesus at Gethsemane is a cup filled with our death. When God hands us our cup, when he calls us to deal with the curse of our own life, the result is always the same. We break it. We pour out our death upon Jesus’ life and Good Friday is born. 

The celebration of Easter is a celebration born out of the darkest day in all of history, today, Good Friday. When we celebrate eternal life, we secretly celebrate Jesus’ death. The colors of Easter are all tinted by the shadow of the cross. In every basket of Easter eggs, which symbolize new life, there can always be found at least one that has been stained with a dark red dye… 

Our call to follow Christ is above all a call to be spectators, to be witnesses of the one whose life was made a spectacle by our death. We are called above all to behold the cost of our own sin, the curse that we embrace in our slumber. We are called to follow Christ so that we can bear witness to the spectacle of a Crucified God. Any attempt to tell of a gospel of life, of love, of following Christ, that is not stained with the dark red dye that splashes upon our gaze, is no gospel at all. It is an Easter without a Good Friday, a resurrection without a death, a favor from God but not his furious love. It is a dispassionate Passion. 

So I encourage you today to celebrate your birthday, because today marks the day that your birth became possible, the day that life became possible. And as we move forward to Sunday’s celebration, let us stumble toward the empty tomb without bypassing the mountain of death, on which all our cups were broken. Smile for Sunday but set aside a tear for today. Embrace the whole Gospel with all its nails and thorns. Behold the God who drank your death. And love him as though your life depended on it…because your life does depend on it.