restoring hope

It’s Refugee Week in Australia. The overall aim of which, according to the Refugee Council Of Australia website, is to “raise awareness about the issues affecting refugees and celebrate the positive contributions made by refugees to Australian society”.

Timely, given recent events off the coast.

The theme of Refugee Week for 2012-14 is ‘restoring hope’. And I’ve been wondering whether there’s any distinctively Christian contribution to be made along any of the three axes specified by the Refugee Council:

1. A recognition that refugees’ journeys begin not simply with danger, fear and trauma but also with hope.
2. An invitation to communities offering hospitality to refugees to view their work in a positive sense — they’re restoring hope to people.
3. And a challenge to face up to the hope-threatening ‘permanently temporary’ situation many refugees are forced to inhabit.

My mind’s been travelling more and more along the third axis — particularly as I’ve mulled over 1 Peter in the lead up to preaching on it.

I’m totally convinced that 1 Peter is the most important New Testament letter for Western Christians to come to grips with — especially as the tide of Christendom continues to retreat.

What I especially appreciate about 1 Peter is its refusal to allow Christians to lose sight of the theological (as opposed to sociological) reality of our status as ‘displaced persons’ — profoundly out of joint with our context, no matter what society we find ourselves in.

So if we take 1 Peter seriously then Christians should have some intrinsic sympathy for the vulnerability, marginalisation, insecurity and embattled experience of actual refugees.

We should expect to be familiar with not belonging. And we should know what it’s like to be looked at askance or subjected to hostile questioning — even legal sanctions.

More than this, 1 Peter teaches Christians that we should have something to share and contribute on the basis of the ‘living hope’ the resurrection of Jesus ushers us into.

The gift of lasting stability — not only a secure inheritance beyond the reach of rust and corrosion, but also a rock-solid confidence that God himself travels with and protects us on the journey.

The ultimate belonging — to an eternal family bound to one another in genuine from-the-heart love.

The astonish privilege and purpose — graciously qualified to offer spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through the Messiah, Jesus, as we declare the glories of our Rescuer.

All of these 1 Peter holds before us — a dazzling kaleidoscope of hope. With massive restorative potential!

the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak

Last week I heard a terrific talk on Matthew 26.36-46 — Jesus’ agony in the Garden of Gethsemane.

This is the journey it took me on:

As we kneel beside Jesus in this moment of intimate prayer, we get an authentic taste of the cost God bears to reconcile us to himself.

Jesus falls apart at the prospect of draining the cup of God’s wrath against sinners. He’s broken and oppressed. Weighed down with grief and fear. Begging for there to be any other way.

But he also willingly chooses to trust his Father. He surrenders. And consents to walk the path laid out for him — the path leading to the cross.

As a result, he completes the mission the Father sent him on. And leaves us an example at the same time.

1. An example of trusting obedience — “yet not my will but your will be done”.
2. An example of honest wrestling in prayer — not hiding his dread at what awaits him but laying it before his loving Father.
3. An example of transforming forgiveness — dealing gently with his wavering followers as he restores and summons them to renewed obedience.
4. And an example of God-honouring response to suffering — not allowing the darkness to blot out his confidence in his Father’s goodness (and thus the goodness of the path before him).

In a sense, these are the two mega-themes of the Christian faith: God’s decisive achievement of reconciliation in Christ and the response it summons us to.

But what really gripped me about the talk — and what still grips me about this passage — is how it brings together these two themes.

It all hinges on the third point.

You see, Jesus invites his inner circle to share his agony — following at a distance, keeping watch and praying. And when they fail (not once but three times), he forgives and summons them to renewed obedience.

Verses 40-41 are where things get really interesting.

Notice first how Jesus won’t let them hide from their failure: “Couldn’t you men keep watch with me for one hour?”

As always, God’s forgiveness isn’t a shrugging indifference — as though what we do (or don’t do) doesn’t really matter. That’s what makes is forgiveness.

Notice too how his gentleness and understanding in forgiving — “The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak” — goes hand-in-hand with a reiterated summons to obedience: “Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation.”

This transforming forgiveness is what Christ willingly drinks the cup to secure for us.

Ultimately, Gethsemane opens a window into the cross not simply as the objective achievement of reconciliation — securing the possibility of salvation or whatever. It also gives us a glimpse of the ‘subjective’ goal of the cross — the flesh and blood reality of salvation.

For here we see our Saviour choosing to drink the cup we deserve to drink in order to call forth and enable our stumbling and faltering Grace Rather Than Fear-driven obedience

He surrenders to his Father’s will so we might obediently trust.

He pours out the grief and pain in his heart so we might bring our own to God in prayer.

He forgives and restores so we might become agents of transforming forgiveness.

And he clings to his Father so we too might know the light that shines in the darkness…

maybe I’m not so crazy after all…

I’d given up hope of getting a blog post in this week. But inspiration has struck — at 4.30 on Friday afternoon! (Better late than never I guess).

Although, rather than ‘inspiration’ I should say ‘Oliver O’Donovan’…

You see, O’Donovan affirms my recent flip-flopping between conservatism and liberalism when he draws together some observations about the gospel and the created order at the conclusion of a densely-packed few pages of argument in chapter 3 of Resurrection and Moral Order (pages 53-58):

Christian ethics … looks both backwards and forwards, to the origin and to the end of the created order. It respects the natural structures of life in the world, while looking forward to their transformation. This can be seen, for example, in the First Epistle of Peter, which starts with a general characterization of the Christian life in terms of ‘hope’, which is set ‘fully on the grace that is coming to you at the revelation of Jesus Christ’, and then elaborates a special ethics in terms of respectful submission ‘for the Lord’s sake’ to every institution of human life, especially the institutions of government, labour and marriage (1 Pet. 1:13; 2:13ff). There is no conflict here between what might be thought of as the ‘radical’ character of the general outlook and the ‘conservatism’ of the specific counsel. A hope which envisions the transformation of existing natural structures cannot consistently attack or repudiate those structures. Yet the ‘conservatism’ (if it is proper to use the word) includes a sense of distance, which springs from a sharp awareness of how much the institutions need redemption and how transitory is their present form.

I find this heartening. And packed with explosive implications.

Heartening — not only because O’Donovan agrees with me(!) but because I’m due to preach on 1 Peter next semester and this suggests I’m not barking up entirely the wrong tree.

And packed with implications because taking 1 Peter seriously has the potential to lay dynamite at the foot of many cherished ideas about politics, work and relationships on both the right and the left.

turns out I’m more liberal than I realised too

Having recently concluded that I may be more conservative than I realised, this past week I’ve found myself reflecting on whether I might be more liberal than I realised too.

What sparked this reflection was some reading I’d been doing in preparation to speak about sex and gender — and the difference Jesus makes not only to how we think about these things but also to how we engage with them practically.

Basically, I keep finding that — as a Christian — I agree with Queer Theorists like Judith Butler and Eve Sedgewick.

I’ve noticed this surprising alignment when I consider the way Sedgewick argues against the naturalness of sexual orientation — and the comfortable Either/Or we often reach for when discussing sexual identity (e.g., either gay or straight).

Likewise, I’m inclined to credit Michel Foucault’s provocative claim (upon which Queer Theory is more or less founded) that homosexuality was invented in the nineteenth century.

Before that, homosexuality as we know it — ie. as an identity tied to a particular lifestyle — didn’t exist.

I can’t see any point in denying this.

In fact, there are even things here I want to affirm. For example, Queer Theory’s overall tendency to treat sexuality as something quite fluid and multifaceted seems to resonate nicely with the scholarly consensus about the lack of reference to homosexuality as a settled identity or orientation in the Bible.

Although — and here I no doubt part ways with most Queer Theorists — the Bible is perfectly well acquainted with same-sex desire and same-sex sexual activity.

Biblically, homosexual desires — along with a wide range of other misdirected and out-of-proportion desires — are treated as evidence of the brokenness of our world.
And homosexual acts as a misuse of our bodies — one that departs from our good Creator’s vision for our sexual wholeness.

Neither homosexual acts nor homosexual inclinations are the real issue. They’re results of the real issue — which is idolatry according to Romans 1, the ‘de-godding’ of God.

And so, with that thought, my reflections come full circle.

Because the issue of idolatry also lay at the base of my previous attempt to summarise my theology of politics (I hesitate to call it a political theology):

Before the risen Lord Jesus, earthly governments must renounce their tendency to idolatrous self-divinisation.

Of course, the same goes for the Economy and My Little Patch Of Individual Autonomy — two often-hypostasised alternatives to earthly governments.

They are the things governments should butt out of, according to classical and contemporary conservative thought.

But neither the economy nor the individual is immune to the temptation to pose as divine. Thus, both must learn to shrink back before the Lord Jesus, whose self-emptying ‘economy’ alone truly enriches and gives life (2 Corinthians 8.9) and whose risen sovereignty alone offers lasting security and salvation (1 Peter 1.3-5).

In other words, sexuality, politics, and the economy are all in the same boat.

All are good gifts from our Creator, and all able to be rightly used when he is allowed to be God. And yet all also tend to claim too much for themselves — presenting themselves as natural and inevitable — drawing our hearts and allegiance into their self-destructive maelstrom.

Hence, my surprising sense of alignment with Queer Theory when it questions this ‘naturalness’ when it comes to sex and gender…

the boat and the anchor

My article on Christian apologetics is now available on The Briefing website. For free.

It’s called ‘The Boat and The Anchor’ — in the spirit of Matthias Media’s ‘The Blah and The Blah’ series. You know, The Trellis and The Vine? Or The Archer and The Arrow?

Love to hear what you make of it.

You can read it HERE.

I guess I’m more conservative than I realised

“I guess I’m more conservative than I realised…”

That was what popped into my head as I was haranguing a group of students last night about how their allegiance to Jesus should impact their politics.

Because Jesus is risen, his authority trumps every human authority claim — in the household or the polis.

According to Colossians 3.22-25, Christian slaves are to recognise that ultimately they serve the Lord Christ over and above any earthly master.

Paradoxically, though, this motivates a thoroughgoing obedience. “In everything”, Paul says (verse 22).

For slaves this was to be expressed in enthusiastic and willing service. And not merely when that might earn their earthly masters’ recognition.

On the flip-side, Christian slave masters too were reminded that their authority was relativised by the superior claim of the Lord Jesus.

Colossians 4.1: “Masters, supply your slaves with what is right and fair, since you know that you too have a Master in heaven.”

And similar logic is on display in New Testament thinking about political authority.

Caesar is called on his claim to provide life, peace, salvation and protection. For these are things the risen Lord Christ alone provides.

As a result, Christians mustn’t worship earthly political leaders — or drift with the tide in ascribing to them ‘magical powers’ (to borrow a phrase Ben Myers picks up from Bonhoeffer).

At the same time, Christians are summoned by Jesus to be better citizens than the citizens of this world. Paying their taxes ungrudgingly. Honouring the Emperor. Seeking the common good.

This is where my thought about being more conservative than I realised comes in.

By putting earthly authorities on notice, Jesus leaves them — including governments — a relatively minor role (certainly compared to their more grandiose ambitions to deliver life and lasting peace).

And this chimes in with a typical conservative theme — governments need to learn their place, stop overstepping their bounds, and just butt out!

So there you have it: more conservative than I realised.

(Ah, well. There goes my left-leaning,
Karl Barth-, N.T. Wright-, and Stanley Hauerwas-reading Christian hipster cred…)

could your life be more of an empty tomb story?

A couple of weeks ago I got to preach on the closing verses of John’s Gospel — John 21.15-25.

You can listen to my sermon HERE.

I wouldn’t normally mention this. But I found the experience of preparing it particularly encouraging. And I was more than usually satisfied that I didn’t completely botch it.

Here’s the intro to whet your appetite:

Over the few weeks since Easter, we’ve been walking with the disciples the conclusion of John’s Gospel.

Beginning with the empty tomb, we’ve stood with the disciples in their confusion and amazement as our risen Lord met them — bringing peace.

We’ve travelled with them through their doubts and disbelief as he drew out their faltering trust and worship.

And we’ve shared a strange breakfast encounter on a Galileean beach as Jesus commissioned his first disciples — and us too — to be his church in the power of the resurrection. And to get about the work he calls us to take part in with him — fishing for people.

It’s been a journey of hope. Of light breaking into the darkness and brokenness of the cross.

But more than once as I’ve read and listened, I’ve caught myself thinking:

“That’s great! Sure — there is hope and restoration and victory. That’s what being the people of the risen Saviour is all about. So … why don’t I feel it most of the time? Why isn’t my life more of an empty tomb story?”

How is this stuff supposed to land in our day to day? In the weekly grind of battling generalised low-grade illness. Juggling competing deadlines. Trying to work out how to raise something with a boss (or whether it’s even worth raising). Or wondering if it’s OK that you and your partner are collapsing exhausted in front of the TV again.

Maybe you can resonate?

I’m convinced this is where John 21.15-25 comes in.

Because these brief few verses at the very end of John’s Gospel — after the triumph of the resurrection — well, they’re all about ordinary Christian living in the power of our risen Lord…

As I said, you can download the whole thing and listen to it HERE.

And let me know if you find it helpful. Or not.

a spot of shameless self-promotion

My article on ‘non-combative apologetics’ came out in the May issue of The Briefing.

It’s not (yet?) available online. So you’ll have to get hold of a print copy of the magazine.

Here’s a teaser:

I am not suggesting that we give up on trying to pepper our conversations with incisive, Christ-centred content — especially in responding to any questions or objections to faith that get thrown our way. Nor am I suggesting that it’s wrong to put effort into relating well to inquirers — even hostile inquirers. It is not wrong to be credible, appealing, or winsome. Rather, it’s about where our primary focus is. Is it on proving ourselves before others (either by ‘winning’ every argument or by so desperately striving to be ‘winsome’ that we may even let go of our Christian integrity, fear of God, and consistency)? Or is it on pleasing and honouring our Lord?

In other words, if we want Christian apologetics to be genuinely Christian then we need to do some work on our hearts.

In the article, I argue that this change of heart will become visible in a non-combative approach to our conversations about Jesus. An approach which promises to be less polarising and more fruitful.

Of course, this still names more of an aspiration than a lived reality for me. (I tend to pendulum swing between Full-On Combative at one extreme and Avoidance Rather Than Apologetic Engagement at the other.)

But I’m more and more convinced that it’s part of a deeper and wider need to reform our Christian engagement with culture — ensuring that it is actually Christian.

Lord – teach us to pray … again!

Picture this:

You’re walking along — in transit between Point A and Point B (your home and your tram stop, your office and wherever you parked your car).

You’ve set aside the time to pray. Perhaps to start your morning with something important. Or review your day.

So you begin: “Loving God…”

You pray briefly for a couple of big picture things. This morning’s headlines. Uncle Ernest’s big operation. Stuff like that.

Then you turn your attention to the day, intending to offer up whatever crosses your mind.

There’s that looming deadline.

And some simmering conflict with a work colleague.

Yep — definitely pray about that.

And you need to call your parents. Better pray for that conversation! Oh yeah — and for them too…

And there’s the dry cleaning to pick up…

Whoa. Back on track.

“Maybe I should pull out my phone and check my appointments. Then I can commit my day to God — hour by hour.”

And before you know it prayer gets buried under the jumble of day planning — adding items to your To Do list, checking email, and scanning your Facebook news feed…

Sound familiar?

It happens to me all the time. All. The. Time.

Mind you, it’s not a new problem. Theologian John Calvin wrote about it back in the Seventeenth Century (minus the email and Facebook bit).

Here’s what Calvin says about the tendency of undisciplined prayer to collapse under the weight of random thoughts and recollections in his famous Institutes of the Christian Religion (III.xx.5):

No one is so intent on praying that he does not feel many irrelevant thought stealing upon him, which either break the course of prayer or delay it by some winding bypath.

What can be done about this?

This is where the Lord’s Prayer comes in.

Explicitly so in Luke’s Gospel. When Jesus’ disciples approach him and ask, “Lord, teach us to pray”, Jesus responds by outlining the What, How, and Why of prayer. And it all starts with the Lord’s Prayer.

For Jesus in Luke, this prayer is a solid and spacious trellis upon which his disciples can grow a healthy and fruitful prayer life.

Which certainly sounds to me like a pretty good place to start — or start again!

the weirdness of Christian experience

I was smacked between the eyeballs by the weirdness of Christian experience the other day. It happened while reading these verses from 1 Peter with some students:

“You love [Jesus], though you have not seen Him. And though not seeing Him now, you believe in Him and rejoice with inexpressible and glorious joy, because you are receiving the goal of your faith, the salvation of your souls.” (1 Peter 1.8-9)

It’s easy to become immunised against the sheer oddness of claiming to love and centre your life upon a person you’ve never seen or met in the flesh.

Or to catch yourself trying to suppress this troubling intrusive mid-prayer thought: “OK. So I’m praying — which I believe is communicating with the personal Creator and Ruler of the universe… But it feels like I’m talking to the wall. In my head.”

But Peter won’t suppress it. He won’t let us develop an immunity to the weirdness of Christian experience.

Instead, he wants to make sure we’re scratching the rash rather than ignoring it. Because the rash reminds us that something isn’t right.

And what isn’t right, Peter tells his readers, is that Christians are displaced people.

We’re spiritual refugees. Doing our best to live in a foreign land. To adapt to a new context without losing touch with our real home.

We’re pilgrims. Like the people of Israel on their long desert journey towards the land God promised they would inherit. Trudging onward. Shielded by God’s presence with us — not as a pillar of smoke by day and fire by night, but more directly (if less tangibly) by his Spirit.

Ultimately, Peter tells us, Christians aren’t weird because we’ve chosen to be out of step with our culture and its values. As though our morality was like an outfit we might pick to express ourselves — or to fit in (or stand out).

And we’re not weird because our culture has chosen to reject or oppose us. (Rejection and opposition is a symptom of our weirdness not its cause — let the culture warriors understand!)

No. We’re burdened with weirdness because God has chosen us. He’s caught us up in the eternal dance of his triune life as Father, Son, and Spirit. As Peter puts it, “according to the foreknowledge of God the Father” we’ve been “set apart by the Spirit for obedience and sprinkling with the blood of Jesus Christ.” (1 Peter 1.2).

And that’s pretty darn weird…