Bloody Love

“God so loved the world that he gave his only son….”

The older I get, the less I can accept this idea. When my own sons were born, I discovered a depth of love that I didn’t know I had and I went a little crazy thinking about how to care for them. They’re grown now but I would still fight tigers, armies, and hurricanes to protect my sons. I have cried in frustration and shame when I failed to care for them adequately.

How am I supposed to respond to a heavenly father who hands his child over to be sacrificed and says he did it for me?

Child sacrifice. It's an old concept where cultures thought it would protect them from disaster or perhaps give them a good harvest. Butcher a child, sacrifice a virgin, throw someone into the mouth of a volcano, and the village would be saved. Nowadays we know better and we understand that human sacrifice is reprehensible.

Except when God does it. For some reason, we don’t say it’s awful. Instead we say it’s beautiful—a gesture of God’s love and we sing lovely songs about it.

We especially sing of the blood of Jesus spilled on our behalf.

There is a fountain filled with blood.
Are you washed in the blood?
What can wash away my sin? Nothing but the blood.
Oh, the blood of Jesus!

But wait, there’s more! We have a special ceremony, a commemorative meal, where the bread is his body and wine is his blood. Some Christians say it miraculously changes to actual flesh and blood as it enters us. “Take this body, take this blood,” we say, "remember what was done for you and be grateful.”

No.

No more.

I do not accept.

I do not celebrate the blood of anyone’s child.

Is The Story of Jesus' Resurrection True? You Decide

Mark’s gospel is the earliest account of Jesus’ life, and includes details left out in others' accounts. However, it comes to an abrupt end. 

Two days after Jesus was crucified, three women went to the tomb to attend to his body.  When they arrived, they saw the stone rolled away from the entrance and a young man waiting for them.  He told them Jesus was not there and that he was alive again. The last sentence of Mark's gospel says that the women left the tomb bewildered and afraid. 

That it. That’s where it ends.  An empty tomb. 

Evidently, people were dissatisfied so two different endings were attached at later times. One was short; the other was longer and more detailed. Take your pick. There's been much discussion but most scholars think the endings are not part of the original text.

The writers of the later gospels changed the ending, too. Instead of one guy at the tomb there are two angels. John says Mary Magdalene returned to the tomb and actually saw Jesus (she even hugged him). Then Jesus appeared to disciples in different places for the next forty days. A handful of those disciples watched him rise into the air and disappear into the heavens with a promise to return. 

But not Mark. The earliest account ends with fearful women looking at an empty tomb. If we look through the whole text we can see that it’s his style to end a story abruptly, leaving the reader to ask, “What happened? What does this mean?” I think he meant to challenge people to find answers within themselves. 

So…

You’re looking at an empty tomb and a stranger saying Jesus has risen from the dead.  What do you think?

A lot of preachers say, “Here’s what really happened, and this is what you should believe about it.” Many of them also say, “Everything is pointless until you agree that it actually happened.” If they refer to the later gospels, picking the passages carefully, they may find something to back up their assertions. 

But it boils down to this. A story is told that a long time ago, there was a great teacher who worked miracles. He was executed and became a martyr. But he didn’t stay dead and the evidence of his resurrection is an empty tomb. 

Did any of it happen? We don’t know. Did Jesus rise from the dead? We don’t know. Is Jesus a deity worthy to be worshiped? You get to decide.

A lot of people have insisted it’s all true, including the parts that are added later.  They have the right to believe it. They also have the right to speak up and say they believe it. 

But they don’t have the right to force others to believe it. They don’t have the right to insist that it be taught as history in our schools.  They don’t have the right to legislate belief in any form. Even if they did have the right they still wouldn’t have the power, no matter how hard they try, to force someone to believe. 

Preachers can preach. Teachers can teach. Parents can read it to their children at bedtime.  Movies can depict the story with stirring music and graphic detail.  But none of that makes it true and people don’t have to accept it as such.

However, if you want to believe it, by all means do so. It’s your choice.  

I Didn't Kill Jesus

In recent years, this would have been a big week for me.  Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, and Good Friday.  For a few years, the town’s musicians, especially the high school students would do a Dixieland Jazz style concert on Saturday at our church.  And then there was Easter Sunday with a Sunrise Service, breakfast, Egg Hunt, and Sunday School.  Then we had the big worship service where attendance would be high and we’d wear our best clothes and play our best music and I’d give my best effort at preaching.

This year, I thought I’d quietly skip the whole thing. But I can’t.

To begin, Good Friday is problematic for me.  It has been for a while but I couldn’t articulate what agitated me. 

Tonight a few preachers will give graphic descriptions of Jesus’ physical suffering, turning it into a CSI episode.  I hasten to say, however, that most preachers will be more restrained in their presentation.  Nonetheless, people will weep, often tapping into recent, more personal grief.  Many will also tap into the general guilt and anxiety most of us carry within, and they’ll find themselves feeling personally responsibility for Jesus’ suffering.

Our doctrine encourages that.   

I ignored my inner conflict and I played my part. Some years, I played the part of Jesus in church musicals and reenacted the crucifixion scenes.  Most years for Good Friday service, I’d have someone bang a hammer against metal to make people think of the nails driven in Jesus’ hands and feet. Or I’d have people come forward and hammer their own nails into a cross.  But my last group was too sensitive for that and it caused them too much pain. So I modified the ritual and had people come to the cross simply to touch it—that was powerful enough. 

Nowadays, I’ve become clearer in my objection to the “Atonement Model,” as some theologians call it. It’s the explanation that Jesus died on the cross as the ultimate sacrifice for the sins of the world.  This concept goes back to the priest Martin Luther. Before him was the monk Anselm, and earlier still was Bishop Augustine. Most of their thoughts are developed from Pauline passages of scriptures.  I understand how Paul, who reportedly murdered people for their faith, would be comforted by the thought that his sins were forgiven by the atoning sacrifice of Christ. 

But I have a problem with it.  If God required a blood sacrifice to mollify his rage… well, it isn’t forgiveness, is it?  I also have a problem with making everyone take responsibility for the actions of a murderous mob, some  corrupt religious leaders, and two cowardly politicians of the day.  

I have done some bad things for which I take responsibility but I did not murder Jesus, and I won’t carry that burden anymore.  Nor will I put that burden on anyone else ever again.  I’m not telling any more children that it was their fault. I’m not telling decent people who work hard and do good things, that they should carry such a monumental burden of shame. 

I’m sorry that I did for so long. 

Science and Religion

As a minister, who has been formally trained in theology and biblical texts, I've been sucked into the conflict between these two disciplines innumerable times and I'm sick of it.  

Anyone who insists that we should get our science from the Bible doesn't really understand the Bible, much less science. Anyone who discounts the Bible because it does not measure up to scientific discovery also does not understand the Bible.

Science and theology are two different disciplines pursuing two different directions. There is no competition between the two although occasionally we might see some overlap in topics.

For hundreds of years, we’ve been pitting faith against science and it has been a colossal waste of time, distracting us from doing actual good. Could we please go fight some real battles like famine, human trafficking, loneliness, violence, sickness, poverty, and ignorance? 

We could use both disciplines to make things better. Want to be a scientist? Be a thorough, honest one and quit spending time fighting the theologians. Are you a Christian? Then for Christ’s sake, do Christ’s work and stop trying to bully science with your religion.

Where is Hope?

Hope lies within us.  It is part of that soulful mix that weaves the events of life into a tapestry that can be beautiful. It’s a tapestry of our making.  It isn’t waiting for us to discover it. It has to be composed with the raw elements of reality, using our creativity, optimism, and determination to make it meaningful. 

Hope doesn’t passively wait for life to get better. It’s an active ingredient within the person that makes life good.  

Watching the Violence

The little boy clenched his fists as he took on an unfamiliar fighter’s stance. His opponent was unworried, more experienced, and a LOT bigger. The little guy swung wildly. The big boy blocked it and countered with one hard blow to the belly that put his opponent down. The young crowd that had gathered to watch were shocked into silence at the fast brutality.

The boy lay in a ball, face buried in the dirt to hide his tears while his chest heaved silently. He refused to get up until the rest of us left. The big boy left first, laughing.

I didn’t know either of the boys. I never learned the context of the moment. I only encountered the conflict because I was on my way home from school. But forty-five years later I still feel the heat rise within me when I think about it.

The next day I sought out the bigger boy and taunted him, suggesting he fight me. He demurred since I appeared to be a more formidable adversary. I challenged him several more times over the school year but he never accepted. I think he was honestly puzzled at my hostility. I guess maybe I am too.

He didn’t have to hurt the smaller boy. He was big enough that a simple shove would have finished the match before it started. He didn’t have to laugh, either. I was just a kid but I could see the angst in the little guy. He was in pain before he ever got hit. I wonder what he feels now when he remembers that moment.

I think I also feel ashamed that I let it happen. I know it wasn’t my business but if I had thought quicker perhaps I could have intervened. I didn’t like being a spectator and then walking away just like everyone else.

Over the years, I’ve had occasion to be of help, to intervene in a crisis, or at least help someone who was down. But often I still feel that same helplessness as I watch everything that goes on around me: violence, injury, sickness, and loss. And sometimes the aggressors are also victims so in addition to the anger and the shame, I feel confusion.

Now, after so many years in ministry, I feel something else.

Tired.

I'm not a Sinner. I'm a Person

I’m not a sinner. I’m a person. 

I posted this on Facebook and received some powerful reactions.  My minister pals responded with gentleness and support.  Other friends, though they were kind, equated my statement with total rejection of the Christian doctrine and it confused them to hear this coming from a pastor.   Some cheered me on even as they poured out their stories of having been rejected by their Christian communities.

Is it really so shocking that I insist I am a whole person complete with conflicting attributes? And excuse me if I sound guilty of the sin of pride, but  I’m pretty damned interesting.  I can be brilliant, dumb, generous and petty.  I sing, whisper, yell, and mumble.   I laugh loud, wail inconsolably, burn with rage, and love with passion. I work hard and occasionally I struggle through the minutia to accomplish big things. I’ve also helped people throughout my life. 

All these things count.  I won’t exclude them all and focus only on the bad stuff.

But let’s think this through.  Am I a sinner? I’ve searched myself all my life like a good little Christian to ferret out all my inner evil and I’ve enjoyed about as much of that misery as I can stand.  But if I must, I’ll give myself one final quickie—oops, using that word is probably a sin.  But let’s move on.    

Have I hurt others? Yeah, so okay, those are sins.  Additionally, others have said I have hurt them and they expect me to hang my head and feel bad. I can’t argue because that would probably be a sin, too. On the other hand, I’ve avoided the biggies—murder, robbery, tearing labels off mattresses.  But it’s a sin to brag about the bad things I've avoided.  Also, I’ve done some pretty good things, but thinking about how good I am is a sin, too.

Then there are the sins of omission—the endless list of things I am not doing but should be.  Also, my inner thoughts of the bad things I wish I could be doing—they’re sins too.  And then the feelings—jealousy, fear, anger, sexual desire, grief—I shouldn’t have them so those are also sins. 

Finally, we say that sin is anything less than perfection.  So as I sit here with imperfect posture, my fingers using the backspace key while I type in my flawed thoughts, I’m supposed to agree that there’s never a moment when I’m not sinning. 

Fine. You win. If we exclude every other fact about me, we can call me a miserable, scum sucking, stinking sinner.  And so are you.  And so is everyone. 

It’s probably a sin to say this is crazy.  But it is. 

Quote a Bible verse or two, or a hundred, but it’s doesn’t make it less crazy.  Weave your thoughts into a weird doctrinal narrative and call it “God’s love,” and that makes it more crazy.  Shout it from ten thousand protestant pulpits and the craziness grows. Teach it lovingly to the children in classrooms and we’ve elevated it to wickedness.   

So I want to say sincerely, I’m sorry but I’m not a sinner.  I’m sorry I ever believed that I was.  I’m sorry I told others they were sinners.  I’m sorry I preached it in the pulpit and taught it in the classroom and shared it to families in their living rooms. 

I repent. I take it back. 

Condemn me for it if you must, but I’m not a sinner. And neither are you.  We are persons.