Author Archives: Michael Pahl

You Are Forgiven

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This post in an adapted excerpt from my sermon in the series “Four Things,” preached at Morden Mennonite on January 17, 2016. See others in the series: “Loved,” “Needed,” “Not Alone.” Here is the audio of the full sermon:

Here’s a word we know all too well: guilt.

You know the feeling. You’ve done something, said something, something wrong, something that crossed the line. And you know it.

You might not be ready to admit it right after it happens. In the heat of the moment we are often too caught up, too riled up, to see the wrong we have just done. But later, after we’ve gone through all the self-justification, all the self-talk of “they deserved it” or “what else was I supposed to do?”—after we’ve spent our allotment of pride, we admit it to ourselves: we were wrong.

Then there’s guilt’s close cousin: shame.

You know that feeling too. You’ve done something, said something, something socially wrong—and so you pay the social consequences. You’re embarrassed, maybe even humiliated. You lower your eyes and turn away. Maybe you slink off into a corner, trying to avoid the looks of all those people. You’ve lost face, and you can’t show your face.

Guilt and shame. They are normal human experiences, normal human emotions, that we all experience at one time or another. They can even serve a good purpose: they help to shape our morality, our ethics, so that we become better people, treating each other in better ways.

But what if your life is defined by guilt and shame? What if you live in a world constructed out of rules and penalties? What if you spend a good bit of your time and energy trying to avoid being guilty and evade being ashamed?

What if your past is spotted with unresolved guilt and unmended shame? Or—heaven forbid—what if your experience is one moment of guilt after another, one shameful encounter after another, overfilled with false guilt and undeserved shame?

If any of this describes where you are at, then this is what you need to hear: you are forgiven.

You are forgiven. God stands ready to forgive you, always, at any time. And that forgiveness can be the doorway to forgiveness and restoration with others. You are forgiven.

“Whoa, wait a minute! Doesn’t forgiveness need confession and repentance? How can you simply say, ‘You are forgiven’?”

Good question. And to answer it, let’s listen carefully to what the Apostle Paul says in 2 Corinthians:

The love of Christ urges us on, because we are convinced that one has died for all; therefore all have died… God reconciled us to himself through Christ, and has given us the ministry of reconciliation; that is, in Christ God was reconciling the world to himself, not counting their trespasses against them, and entrusting the message of reconciliation to us.

Did you catch that? God has taken the initiative, God has taken the risky step of love, to reconcile the entire world to himself, and Jesus has died to seal that reconciliation. And so God no longer counts our trespasses against us. In love there is no record of wrongs.

It’s a bit mind-boggling, to be honest. But here’s how I understand this: in Christ God has done everything needed for our forgiveness. And so God stands ready to forgive us, arms open, hands empty, eyes scanning the horizon like a father waiting for a prodigal child. God stands ready to forgive us, always, at any time.

It is true that to receive that forgiveness we need to admit that we need it. But this is not some kind of hyper-spiritual Christianese God-talk. It’s just the reality of the way forgiveness works, with anybody: if we don’t think we’ve done anything wrong, we won’t think we need to be forgiven.

So if you’ve never done anything wrong in your life, if you’ve never felt guilty or been ashamed for something you’ve said or done, then this post isn’t for you. The healthy don’t need a doctor, only the sick.

But the reality is that we’ve all said or done things to hurt other people, we’ve all harmed others in our lives, intentionally or not. We all know what it’s like to feel guilt. We all know that feeling of shame.

And so when we are at that place where we feel that guilt or shame, whether real or imagined, that’s exactly the place where God stands ready to forgive us, always, at any time.

Rembrandt ProdigalIt’s the reason Jesus could simply say to the paralytic, right out of the blue: “Take heart, son; your sins are forgiven.” The religious leaders of his day didn’t like it, Jesus forgiving sins just like that: no sinners’ prayer, no sacrifice of blood. Jesus saw his heart, and forgave him his sins.

It’s the beautiful, transcendent truth of 1 John’s first chapter: “If we confess our sins, he who is faithful and just will forgive us our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” If we know in our hearts before God that we have done harm to others, the faithful God forgives us.

If you need forgiveness, you are forgiven. It’s as simple as that.

If you are awash with guilt, stuck in the mud and mire of guilt, and you know it: you are forgiven.

If you wrestle with feelings of shame for who you are, what you’ve said, what you have done: you are forgiven.

When you say those hurtful words, when you do that harmful deed, when you don’t say or do that good thing you should have, and you know it: you are forgiven.

You are forgiven.

God stands ready to forgive you, always, at any time. And that forgiveness can be the doorway to forgiveness and restoration with others.

You are forgiven.

Cross-posted from http://www.mordenmennonitechurch.wordpress.com. © Michael W. Pahl.

You Are Loved

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This post in an adapted excerpt from my sermon in the series “Four Things,” preached at Morden Mennonite on January 10, 2016. See others in the series: “Forgiven,” “Needed,” “Not Alone.” Here is the full audio of this sermon:

There is something beautiful about falling in love, but there is something sacred about choosing to love.

There is something sacred about seeing people as they really are, a unique bundle of interests and passions and hurts and wounds and skills and experiences and sorrows and joys and hopes and dreams and pet peeves and quirks and more—seeing them for all this, and choosing to love them, choosing to commit yourself to them, choosing to shower them with your affection, your attention, your time, your energy, your very life.

There is something sacred about choosing to love—because this is how you are loved by God. God sees you as you truly are, every bright spot and dark corner of your life, and chooses to commit himself to you, to shower you with his affection, time, and energy, God’s very life.

You are loved by God.

Being loved by God, though, doesn’t mean that everything will come up roses. In fact, the New Testament promises that following Jesus means you’ll get an extra special share of hardship, and opposition, and suffering.

I often think our view of God hasn’t changed all that much from ancient times.

In ancient times, people tended to believe one of two things about the gods. Either the gods don’t really care at all about humans: the gods only seek to use humans or be amused by them. Or if there is any “love” from the gods it’s about reciprocity: you do X for God, and God will do Y for you. It’s love as payback for services rendered.

But Jesus breaks the pattern. In Jesus God acts first: God so loved the world God sent Jesus into the world, God first loved us. And there is no condition for God’s love: God loves us, period. We don’t need to do the right rituals with the right words. We don’t need to clean ourselves up first, make ourselves presentable. God looks at us, warts and all, and loves us.

This also means that Jesus has severed the connection we make between our circumstances and God’s love. In the ancient view, a view that is still prevalent among many people, including many Christians, if life is good it means God is pleased with me; if life is bad, it means God is not pleased with me.

Again, Jesus breaks the pattern. Think about Jesus himself: he perfectly did God’s will, did exactly everything that God wanted him to do. And yet where did that lead him? Suffering in agony and dying on a cross, crying out in anguish to God.

Here’s the point: our circumstances don’t tell us anything about whether or not God is pleased with us, whether or not God loves us. God’s love has nothing to do with whether or not we are beautiful or rich or smart. Nor does God’s love have anything to do with whether or not we are poor or sick or sorrowing.

But then what does it mean to say, “You are loved by God”? It means this: you have God’s unconditional acceptance, and you have God’s constant, abiding, strengthening, compassionate presence.

Think about it: when push comes to shove, this is how we hope other people will love us. At the end of the day we don’t measure their love by how many gifts they give us, whether they give us stuff to make us happy. Sure, a parent who loves her children loves to give them good gifts, just like God enjoys giving good gifts to us. But those gifts are not a measure of her love; those gifts are not a measure of God’s love.

No, when push comes to shove, when we’re at the end of our rope, we know people love us because they accept us just as we are, and they are there for us when we need them most.

So stop measuring God’s love by whether or not God gives you stuff to make you happy! Stop measuring God’s love by how healthy or comfortable or “blessed” you are!

Instead, know that this is what it means to say “You are loved by God”: God accepts you even when you’re at your worst, and God is right there with you even when you’re at your lowest.

I love how Paul in Romans 8 describes God’s love, and I love how Eugene Peterson has rendered this in his paraphrase, The Message:

Do you think anyone is going to be able to drive a wedge between us and Christ’s love for us? There is no way! Not trouble, not hard times, not hatred, not hunger, not homelessness, not bullying threats, not backstabbing, not even the worst sins listed in Scripture…

None of this fazes us because Jesus loves us. I’m absolutely convinced that nothing—nothing living or dead, angelic or demonic, today or tomorrow, high or low, thinkable or unthinkable—absolutely nothing can get between us and God’s love because of the way that Jesus our Master has embraced us.

You are loved.

You are loved by others, whether you see it or not.

And you are loved by God—unconditionally, without reservation, and always.

Cross-posted from http://www.mordenmennonitechurch.wordpress.com. © Michael W. Pahl.

Which Jesus is the “Real Jesus”?

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Recently I came across an article about ten wrong Jesuses that we should stop worshiping. The premise of the article was good. We all subconsciously make a Jesus in our own image, or the image we wish we were, and so we must become more self-aware of this tendency and more self-critical of our understanding of Jesus. And some of the Jesuses we create are particularly pernicious (ahem).

But where do we go to find the “real Jesus”? The author of the article had an answer: we need to look to “the original Jesus of Scripture.” This impulse is right, but there’s a problem: the New Testament points us to at least ten distinct Jesuses.

There’s “Matthew’s Jesus.” Like all the New Testament sketches of Jesus, Matthew’s Jesus is Israel’s Messiah bringing in God’s reign on earth. However, Matthew’s Jesus brings in God’s kingdom primarily through his teaching: his teaching is the Messianic Torah, upholding and fulfilling the Torah of Moses. Obedience to Jesus’ teaching is both the mark of true discipleship and the way in which God’s kingdom is visible on earth prior to the final fulfillment of God’s reign at Jesus’ return.

“Mark’s Jesus” is also Israel’s Messiah, but he brings in God’s kingdom primarily through his actions, especially his Servant-like suffering and death on the cross, subverting the strong power of the world through the weak power of self-giving. While both Matthew’s and Luke’s portraits of Jesus retain this motif, Mark’s Jesus is especially fixated on it. Mark’s Jesus is thoroughly human—while he acts on behalf of God and with God’s power, there is nothing in Mark’s Gospel that suggests a “God-incarnate” Jesus.

“Luke’s Jesus” shares many similarities with Mark’s and Matthew’s. With Mark, Luke’s Jesus brings in God’s kingdom through weak power, through his self-giving suffering and death. With Matthew, Luke’s Jesus provides crucial teaching that is to shape the way Jesus’ followers live under the reign of God in the world. However, for Luke, the kingdom Jesus brings is for all, right from the start. It’s not just for Jews, but for Gentiles. It’s not just for men, but for women. It’s not just for the wealthy or the noble or the free, but it’s especially for the poor and the oppressed.

Then there’s “John’s Jesus.” While Mark’s Jesus is thoroughly human, and Matthew’s and Luke’s Jesuses are “divine men,” John’s Jesus is unequivocally the eternal and divine “Word made flesh.” John’s Jesus is still Israel’s Messiah, but John prefers to speak more in terms of Jesus as the unique Son who, through his enigmatic discourses and miraculous “signs,” reveals the Father to the world and brings light and life to a dark and dead world.

Four Gospels, four distinct Jesuses. But we’re not done yet.

There’s also “Paul’s Jesus,” the earliest window on Jesus we have. While Paul knows of some teachings of Jesus, and is aware of at least a rudimentary narrative of Jesus’ ministry, his focus is on Jesus as crucified Messiah and resurrected Lord—probably because that’s the Jesus Paul believed he met near Damascus. Thus, all of Paul’s thinking is grounded in Christ crucified and risen, the living Lord present in and among his people by his Spirit: this is Paul’s Jesus.

Then there’s “Hebrews’ Jesus.” Hebrews presents Jesus as a divine Son, somewhere between Matthew’s/Luke’s and John’s on a crude human-to-divine spectrum. For the author of Hebrews, Jesus is an obedient Son in God’s house—greater than household servants like Moses, and greater than the angels who serve those human servants. Yet Hebrews’ Jesus is thoroughly human, sharing in our humanity in order to free us from evil and death, in order to be both perfect priest and perfect sacrifice for sin. In doing this, Jesus has carved a path for us to follow, a path of obedient, patient suffering that leads to a better resurrection.

How about “James’ Jesus”? The letter of James doesn’t speak much of Jesus, actually, but there are some tantalizing clues in it. For the author, Jesus is the “glorious Lord and Messiah” who had been condemned and killed unjustly—behind this is likely a basic narrative of Jesus crucified and resurrected. But, whereas Paul builds his whole theology on Jesus’ death and resurrection while virtually ignoring his teaching, James pretty much does the opposite. Scattered throughout James’ letter are parallels to several of Jesus’ teachings especially found in Matthew and Luke. James’ Jesus is, much like Matthew’s, the devout Jewish Messiah who teaches Torah for his followers to obey.

We can’t leave off without mentioning “Revelation’s Jesus.” In some ways, Revelation’s Jesus is like a hodge-podge of most of these others, but cast in an apocalyptic light. He’s the child of Israel whose birth sparked an eruption of evil on earth. He’s the Messianic Lion of Judah who reveals himself in the world as the suffering and slain Lamb. He’s the divine and eternal Son, the living Lord who has conquered death and still teaches his Church. And he’s coming again to make right all wrongs, to bring a just peace in a new creation.

That’s eight distinct “Jesuses,” and that’s not even all of the New Testament.

But let me add a couple more, discerned also, at least in part, through the New Testament.

There’s the “Historical Jesus.” This is the Jesus reconstructed by historians using historical methods, a “historically plausible” Jesus. In actual fact, there are many different “historical Jesuses,” as many as there are historians who study Jesus. But one might speak of a kind of “consensus historical Jesus.”

This “consensus historical Jesus” grew up in Galilee, was baptized by John, taught about God’s kingdom, and was known to be a healer and miracle-worker. Around the time of one particular Passover he went to Jerusalem, caused a disturbance in the Temple courts, ate a final meal with his disciples, was arrested and interrogated by Jewish authorities, was executed on a cross by order of Pontius Pilate, and was subsequently claimed to have been seen alive by some of his followers.

And then there’s what I might call the “Apostolic Jesus.” This is not really the “historical Jesus,” though this Jesus is detected at least partly through historical means. Nor is this “Paul’s Jesus” or “Matthew’s Jesus” or any of the distinct New Testament portraits of Jesus, though this Jesus stands behind them all. It’s the Jesus presented in one of Paul’s rare snippets of traditional teaching which he received from others before him. It is the earliest of the earliest portraits of Jesus we have:

that Christ died for our sins in accordance with the scriptures,
and that he was buried,
and that he was raised on the third day in accordance with the scriptures,
and that he appeared to Cephas, then to the twelve.

Some might call this the “kerygmatic Jesus” because it reflects the preaching, or “kerygma,” of the earliest Christians. I call it the “apostolic Jesus” because, according to Paul, it’s the Jesus at the heart of all the diverse teaching of the apostles: Jesus the Messiah, dying to deal with human sin, resurrected in divine vindication, all in continuity with the Jewish Scriptures.

So which of these 10+ New Testament-based Jesuses is the “real Jesus”? The answer, I’m afraid, will satisfy no one: none of them, and all of them.

None of these is the “real Jesus,” because none of them is an actual person, but rather a literary creation or theological interpretation or historical reconstruction. Each one is a collection of facts and ideas, and real persons are much, much more than that. None of these brings us into direct contact with the living person of Jesus, either as he was or—if you believe the kerygma—as he is. To claim that any of these is the “real Jesus” would be like me claiming that my Dad’s obituary is the “real William Pahl.”

And yet, all of these are the “real Jesus”—or, at least, all of them give us a glimpse, a sketch, a particular perspective on the “real Jesus.” These 10+ portraits of Jesus are the earliest pictures of Jesus we have (or can reconstruct) and, while they don’t get us back right to Jesus, they are as close as we’re going to get. We can choose to believe one or more of them or not, but we’re not free to ignore them in our search for Jesus, or to put other portraits of Jesus in their place.

A little more than a century after Jesus, there was a movement sparked by a man named Tatian to harmonize the four canonical Gospels into a single Gospel. The idea took hold among some Christians, but in the end all rejected it. The reason was simple: no single portrait of Jesus could capture the real Jesus perfectly.

We are right to look back to the New Testament for our understanding of Jesus. But the New Testament doesn’t present us with a single, uniform picture of Jesus. As much as is possible, we need to attempt to discern each of its distinct portraits of Jesus, not blurring them together, allowing each to give us an important angle on the Jesus who lived, who still lives, and whom we as Christians claim both to worship and to follow.

© Michael W. Pahl

“The Things that Make for Peace”

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“Peace? Sure, we have peace. Jesus brings us peace with God. But no more war? Not in this world!”

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard this sentiment. Not necessarily in those exact words, but the idea has been repeated so many times it’s become a truism.

“Yes, Jesus came to bring peace: peace with God and peace with each other. But while we can have peace with God now, which gives us peace in our hearts, and while we should strive for peace with each other, we need Jesus to come back before that ‘no more conflict, no more violence, no more war’ thing can become reality.”

Hogwash, I say.

Jesus has given us everything we need for peace now, peace in every way. Either we just don’t realize it, or we don’t really believe it.

At least, that’s how Luke describes things.

In the first chapter of Luke’s Gospel is the well-known Advent-y story of John the Baptist’s birth. His father, the priest Zechariah, had been struck dumb during Elizabeth’s pregnancy. But now that the child is born and named he bursts out in praise of God. In the middle of all the hubbub, Zechariah speaks this prophecy:

And you, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High;
for you will go before the Lord to prepare his ways,
to give knowledge of salvation to his people
by the forgiveness of their sins.
By the tender mercy of our God,
the dawn from on high will break upon us,
to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death,
to guide our feet into the way of peace.

Zechariah’s prophecy is linking back to Isaiah 40, the “Comfort, comfort my people” passage. And that prophecy, Isaiah 40, is written for Israel in Exile, scattered among the nations, immersed in a world of violence and oppression and injustice and fear. A world, in other words, that needed peace.

So here’s what Isaiah promised, and what Zechariah repeats: Good news! Yahweh, the God of Israel, is coming! The Lord, the Most High, is coming, and we must get ready! His coming will be like the coming of the dawn for a dark and dying world! His coming will bring salvation from our most ominous enemies, forgiveness from our most devastating and destructive sins! He will guide us in the way of peace!

What a promise! Imagine if, in our world of darkness and death, our world of genocide and carpet bombs, our world of armed robberies and hate crimes, our own hearts soaked in fear and anxiety—imagine if those words were said to us today. Don’t worry! Someone is coming who will show you how to have peace—peace within you, peace among you!

This is the first of Luke’s peace prophecies—exactly what that world needed, exactly what our world needs.

Simonet - Jesus Weeps Over JerusalemBut jump ahead now to a second peace prophecy, this one in Luke 19. It’s the story of Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem. After years of intense ministry, Jesus is coming to his God-ordained end. And as he sees the city and its glorious temple, the jewel of his people, Jesus weeps. He weeps, and speaks this prophecy:

If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes. Indeed, the days will come upon you, when your enemies will set up ramparts around you and surround you, and hem you in on every side. They will crush you to the ground, you and your children within you, and they will not leave within you one stone upon another; because you did not recognize the time of your visitation from God.

Jesus is speaking of the future destruction of Jerusalem, which happened within a generation of his prediction. The Roman armies indeed set up ramparts around Jerusalem and laid siege to the city. The citizens of Jerusalem were indeed crushed to the ground, they and their children within them. The city and its glorious temple were indeed pulled down, stone by stone by massive stone.

And why did that happen? According to Jesus here in Luke, because the people “did not recognize the time of their visitation from God.” They did not recognize “the things that make for peace.”

Luke is linking Jesus’ prophecy here to Zechariah’s prophecy back in chapter one. There, God is coming, God’s visitation is near. Here, God’s visitation has happened, but they’ve missed it. There, God in his coming would “guide their feet into the way of peace.” Here, God has come, but they have missed “the things that make for peace”—and so they would find themselves on the wrong side of a bloody, destructive war.

These two passages—one looking ahead to Jesus’ ministry, the other looking back at it—suggest that the “way of peace,” the “things that make for peace,” have in fact already been revealed during Jesus’ earthly ministry. According to Luke, then, if we want to know the “things that make for peace,” if we want to know God’s “way of peace” for the world, we need to look back at all those peace-making things Jesus has already done.

Here’s just a few of these “lessons in the way of peace” Luke’s Jesus has taught.

Luke 3: Jesus is baptized by John, anointed by the Spirit and appointed by God. He is God’s Son, the Messiah, the King who will bring in God’s kingdom, but he is also the well-pleasing Servant of Isaiah, who will bring about God’s purposes through suffering and death. The lesson? The way of peace is a path of self-giving, maybe even suffering.

Luke 4: Jesus is tempted in the wilderness, three times. He says no to satisfying his own needs through his power. He says no to keeping himself safe because of his special status. He says no to ruling over the world if it means venerating evil. The lesson? The way of peace requires us to resist the temptation to bring about even good things through raw power or evil means, or by putting our own provision and protection ahead of others.

Luke 5-6: Jesus heals any who are sick, laying hands on them, touching them in compassion in spite of any regulations about clean and unclean, in spite of any laws about Sabbath and holy days. The lesson? The way of peace is a way of compassion, choosing compassion over fear, choosing compassion over rules, choosing compassion regardless of what society thinks.

Tissot - Jesus TeachingLuke 6: Jesus pronounces both blessings and woes, and it’s absolutely the opposite of what we expect: the poor, the hungry, the weeping, are the blessed ones, while the rich, the full, the laughing, are warned with woe. And then Jesus keeps the surprises coming: “Love your enemies. Do good to those who hate you. Give to everyone who asks. Do not judge, but instead forgive. In everything, do to others as you would have them do to you.” The lesson? The way of peace requires us to embrace the other, even the completely opposite other, with generous love.

Luke 11: Jesus teaches his followers to pray. “Father, you are holy. May your rule be established on earth. Provide for all of us, all our daily needs. Forgive all of us, all our sins, as we forgive each other. Protect all of us, from every evil.” The lesson? The way of peace means recognizing that we’re all in this together, one humanity under God, and basic provision and security and mercy for one requires provision and security and mercy for all.

Luke 12: Jesus teaches his followers to trust, and not to fear. “Don’t put your trust in riches, things that spoil and fade! Don’t be afraid of those who can kill the body but not touch the soul! Don’t worry about what you will eat or what you will wear! Trust in God, who watches over even the smallest sparrow and clothes even the simplest flower.” The lesson? The way of peace is a path of faith, patiently trusting in God for all things and through all things.

These, and more, are Jesus’ lessons in the “way of peace.” Show compassion. Be generous. Reject violence and fear. Don’t judge others. Forgive them. Remember, we’re all in this together. In all things, trust in God.

In Luke’s Gospel these “things that make for peace” are repeated over and over, in many different ways. Deny yourself and take up your cross, daily. Love others like a good Samaritan. Joyfully embrace repentant sinners like a father of a prodigal son returned. Attend to those on the lowest rungs of society: the poor man outside your gates, the children sitting along the edges. Trust in God for the long haul, like a farmer patiently waiting for that little mustard seed to grow, like a baker patiently waiting for that yeast to do its work.

Simple things, but so hard to put into practice moment by moment and day by day. They go against the grain of our “fight or flight” instincts. They run counter to our inclination to fear, to judge, to lash out, to look out for number one. Yet these are the “things that make for peace,” these are God’s “way of peace,” peace within us, and peace among us.

Jesus has already brought everything we need for peace, in every way. And yet here we are, two thousand years later, still fighting wars and telling rumours of wars, still engaged in global conflicts and petty catfights, still resorting to physical and psychological and verbal and emotional violence against one another.

Will we learn “the things that make for peace”? Will we learn God’s “way of peace” through Jesus?

Or does Jesus weep over us as he wept over Jerusalem, because we too refuse to recognize the time of God’s visitation two thousand years ago, bringing God’s way of peace?

This post is adapted from a sermon preached at Morden Mennonite Church on December 20, 2015. For more from this sermon see my follow-up post, “MLK and ‘The Things that Make for Peace.'” Cross-posted from http://www.mordenmennonitechurch.wordpress.com. © Michael W. Pahl

Politics and Power, the Jesus Way

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Politics.

I saw you cringe. It’s one of those topics not fit for polite conversation. It may be entertaining for some, intensely interesting for others, but for many it’s one of those “change the subject” kind of subjects.

Cartoon of crumbling Greek buildingBut politics are everywhere. There are politics any time we humans organize ourselves in order to make decisions for our collective interest. Actually, that’s pretty much the definition of “politics.”

And any time we are talking about making decisions, we’re talking about power: the ability to bring about change. Where there’s politics, there’s power.

Yep, there are even politics and power dynamics in church. Yep, even your church.

Politics and power are inevitable in collective human life. They are neither good nor bad; they just are.

But I sure do understand that feeling of “Ugh!” when you hear the word “politics.” After all, so much of the way we do politics—you might say “the politics of the world”—is just not very nice.

We polish up our résumés and show off our good sides: all strength, no weakness allowed.

We shore up support through strategic relationships and backroom deals and hollow promises.

We appeal to our base through polarizing rhetoric: it’s “us” versus “them.”

We listen to those who agree with us, and we ignore—or even disdain—those who don’t.

We appeal to truth—when it’s convenient for us. Otherwise it’s half-truths, sometimes a full-on lie.

We manipulate emotions through sugary, empty rhetoric. Our only harsh words are for our opponents.

We take control whenever we can, holding all the crucial resources and making all the important decisions.

We do all this either consciously (“That’s just politics!”) or subconsciously (our capacity for self-deceit is astonishing).

And we do all this, we like to think, for the ultimate good of all. We know what is best, and we’ll do whatever it takes to bring about that ultimate good. In the politics of the world, the ends justify the means.

I bet you think I’ve just described politics in Canada or America. That may be, but what I actually had in mind was politics in the church.

Go back through the list again. That, all too often, is church politics. That, folks, is just politics, whether in the church or in society.

But Jesus calls us to another way. Jesus calls us to a radically different politics, a radically different power.

The gospel—and the Gospels—are shot through with Jesus’ upside-down politics and power.

Jesus is anointed by God’s Spirit and appointed by God’s decree: “You are my beloved Son (my chosen Messianic King, in other words); with you I am well-pleased (my chosen Suffering Servant, that is).” Jesus is King, but he’s not like other kings. Jesus brings in a kingdom, but not the way other kingdoms come.

Jesus then immediately and persistently follows through on this: he resists the temptation to seize power through evil or idolatrous means, to establish God’s kingdom through the use of overwhelming force or meticulous control—in stark contrast to the ways and means of the world.

Instead Jesus teaches love of God, love of neighbour, even love of despised enemies—and then he goes out and does it: embracing those on the fringe, exhorting those at the centre, attending to the weak, admonishing the powerful.

Rubens - Jesus on CrossSince his followers are slow to get the point, he states it bluntly: “You know that the rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them, and their great ones are tyrants over them. It will not be so among you; but whoever wishes to be great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be your slave; just as the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.”

And finally, in the penultimate end, Jesus is enthroned on a cross. He gives his life for the good of others, he embraces utter weakness and relinquishes total control, he refuses right to the bitter end to respond with raw power or naked force. In the politics of Jesus, the means—the ways of the cross—are the ends.

In the middle of all this is a familiar story that sums up Jesus’ approach to politics and power.

In the story Peter declares that Jesus is indeed the Messianic King. Jesus accepts his declaration, but immediately emphasizes that the way to his throne is the way of the cross. Peter then rebukes Jesus: That’s not the way kingdoms are won! That’s not how the world changes! Everyone knows this, Jesus!

And in turn, Jesus rebukes Peter, with words that should strike holy fear in the heart of anyone who claims to be a Christian: “Get behind me, Satan! For you are not thinking the way God thinks about such things, but the way the world thinks.”

You are not thinking the way God thinks about such things—about kings and kingdoms, about politics and power—but the way the world thinks.

The world’s politics are about “strong power.” Overwhelming physical presence. Personal charisma and authority. Psychological intimidation and emotional manipulation. Coercive words, polarizing rhetoric, and subtle deceit. Full control.

Jesus’ politics are about “weak power.” Humility, not pride. Compassion, not apathy or antipathy. Persuasion, not coercion. Forgiveness, not blame. Persevering faith, not fear. Self-giving love, not self-serving self-interest.

The world’s politics are tempting, to be sure. You can get quicker results when you force your way through, when you unilaterally push your agenda for a better world. And the longer you spin your wheels trying to achieve a goal without results, or the more pressure there is to bring about a certain objective, not now, but right now—the more tempting it is to resort to strong power.

But the history of humanity—and the smaller stories in our own lives—show over and over again that these “good” results through strong power simply do not last, and they’re often more damaging in the long run. Even in the short run, there are almost always innocent victims, physical or psychological or emotional casualties left in our wake.

Jesus’ politics take longer to achieve any good thing—like small seeds growing, or yeast working through dough—and they demand much more of us—our very lives, in fact. But the end result is shalom for all involved: wholeness, harmony, justice, and abundant life.

So what does all this have to do with church politics? What (gulp) might this even have to do with politics of any kind?

Everything, in every way.

We must resist the temptation to bring about change, even positive change, through strong power. Strong-arm tactics, passive-aggressive behaviour, divisive fearmongering, meticulous control, and more, have no place—no place at all—among followers of the crucified Jesus, whether in the church or beyond it. We need to have a patient, persevering faith, truly trusting that God’s way, the way of weak power, is in fact best.

We must repent of the ways we have engaged in strong-power politics. Again, our capacity for self-deception and self-justification is truly astonishing. This is especially so when we are convinced that our way is the best way, or that we hold the morally superior or theologically correct position. We need constant, rigorous self-monitoring and self-examination—and the humility to accept correction by others.

We must embrace Jesus’ way of weak-power politics. Seeking to persuade rather than coerce: speaking truth to power, showing compassion for weakness. Serving others in humility, not posturing before others to gain status or controlling others to ensure the change we want to see. Forgiving others when they fail, not pouncing on their faults for political leverage. Patiently pursuing long-term shalom rather than short-term gain.

In particular, we must always attend to those on the margins. Always. Even when the margins shift, and those on the outside become those at the centre, and others are now on the margins. And especially when we’re the ones at the centre—along with our friends and family and all our favourite people. Any power for change we possess—through position, wealth, education, whatever—must be used in the way of the cross for those without such power, especially the most vulnerable and unjustly treated.

In other words, we must set aside our cultural brand of Christianity with its ways of the world and respond to Jesus’ radical call to discipleship: “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it.”

This is politics and power, the Jesus way. And it’s the only way to find real life: for you, for the other, for all.

Cross-posted from http://www.mordenmennonitechurch.wordpress.com. © Michael W. Pahl.

(Im)Possible Joy

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I’ve always struggled with joy.

If I were an ancient Roman, sitting in the office of the famed physician Galen, he would have diagnosed me as a “melancholic,” having an excess of black bile in my body. Likely he would have prescribed a treatment of leeches. Leaving aside the black bile and leeches, he would have got the “melancholic” right: serious-minded, introverted, cautious, focused, conscientious—and susceptible to moodiness and sadness.

But melancholic or not, at some point life catches up with everyone. The rose-coloured glasses begin to fade. The half-full glass looks more and more empty.

Disappointments pile up, rejections and dead-ends and broken-down dreams. Injury or illness enters, disease takes up residence. A friend dies, or a sibling, or a parent—or a spouse, or a child.

And we become more aware of the world, more aware that there are seven billion other selves who are each experiencing these things—and far worse. Horrific abuse. Horrendous violence. Utter poverty. Plagues of disease. Cataclysmic natural disasters. Waves of war.

Yes, at some point, for all of us, life catches up with us. And it gets harder and harder to “rejoice in the Lord always” or “consider it nothing but joy whenever you face trials of any kind.”

What is joy? And how do we experience it? Can we truly experience it?

Let me start with this: “Rejoice always” cannot mean “be happy all the time.” Having “the joy of the Lord” cannot mean that we are perma-smiling, always happy, bubbling over with joy, every minute of every day.

You see, we are commanded by the Apostle Paul not just to “rejoice” but also to “mourn.” We are assured by Jesus that those who mourn are blessed by God. And then there’s the Psalms: filled with the whole range of human emotions, from deep sadness and despair to overwhelming delight and celebration.

These biblical commands and promises and descriptions reflect the full depths of the human soul, the whole spectrum of human experience. We are created for all these things: sorrow and gladness, sadness and joy, and everything in between. It’s no coincidence that the most enduring art, the most soul-touching music, the most profound ideas, have been produced by artists and thinkers who fully experienced the full range of human emotions.

As with Jesus himself.

Tissot - Jesus WeptAt least half a dozen times in the Gospels we hear of Jesus being filled with compassion for the suffering of others: compassion, empathy, entering into their suffering. Three times the New Testament describes Jesus weeping: at the death of his friend Lazarus, at Jerusalem’s rejection of his ways of peace, and as he faced his own suffering.

At Gethsemane Jesus confesses to his disciples: “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death.” At Golgotha Jesus cries out to God: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Isaiah certainly gets it right when he speaks of the coming Servant as “a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief.”

So, no: “rejoice always” cannot mean we are to “be happy all the time.” That way of thinking about joy just doesn’t make sense of human experience, of the Bible, of Jesus himself.

In fact, very often in the Bible “joy” isn’t simply tied to feelings of happiness. “Joy” is more of a posture of joy, a settled disposition of joy, that opens us up to moments of joy, those feelings of joy.

The posture of joy is what we are called by God to develop, even when the feelings of joy are not there. This posture of joy is the “joy” that is the Spirit’s fruit in our lives, it’s the “joy” that characterizes God’s kingdom. This posture of joy is what Paul is getting at when he calls Christians to “rejoice in the Lord always.”

The “in the Lord” is the key. This posture of joy is grounded in the assurance of God’s work in the world through Christ and by the Spirit. It is rooted in the gospel, the good news that brings great joy for all people. God has already entered our world in Jesus, the crucified Jesus has been raised from the dead, and this means that every good thing is possible, even when the worst is happening.

This posture of joy, then, means having an underlying sense of love, trusting that God loves us thoroughly and deeply and wants us to experience all that is good and beautiful and true.

This posture of joy means having an underlying sense of hope, believing in the always-open possibility that God will do a good thing even in the midst of terrible things.

This posture of joy is this kind of settled disposition. It’s a Spirit-cultivated faith in the good news of God: hoping in God, trusting in God’s love, and so always being open to those moments of joy when they arrive.

And those moments of joy are there, if we have eyes to see them.

Rembrandt ProdigalMoments of joy in celebration. Celebrating achievements, whether yours or others. Celebrating the overcoming of obstacles, whether big or small. Celebrating milestones, birthdays and anniversaries and baptisms and more.

Moments of joy in delight. Delighting in a picturesque snowfall, a stunning sunset, the northern lights on display. Delighting in the laughter of a child, a good meal, a loved one’s warm embrace. Delighting in both the spectacular wonders of the world and the simple pleasures of life.

“Rejoicing in the Lord,” then, does not mean we have these feelings of joy all the time. The “joy of the Lord” is not about constant happiness, having a permanent smile on our face and laughter on our lips.

Instead, cultivate a posture of joy, regardless of whether the feelings are there or not. Practise faith and hope and love, until that becomes a settled disposition, the way you look at the world. This will open you up to those moments of joy when they come, those occasions of celebration and delight. You will see these moments of joy around you—and when you do, grab hold of them, fully experience them, cherish them. Enjoy them.

Hey, if it can work for this incurable melancholic, it’s worth a try, right?

This post is excerpted from my sermon preached at Morden Mennonite Church on Third Advent, Dec. 13, 2015. In my sermon I noted an important distinction between the sadness that everyone experiences, and depression. Depression can include feelings of deep sadness, but it can also include things like apathy, loss of energy, change of sleeping and eating patterns, and self-loathing—over an extended period of time. See the CMHA website for more information. If you think you may be suffering from depression, please talk to someone or even see your doctor.

Cross-posted from http://www.mordenmennonitechurch.wordpress.com. © Michael W. Pahl.

Love, in the Flesh

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We are created to love and be loved in the flesh. Heard. Seen. Touched. Held. Through thick and thin.

You can think of the story of Scripture as the story of exactly this kind of love.

In the beginning, God creates human beings to love and be loved, in the flesh, through thick and thin—by God, by each other.

The claim in Genesis 2 that “it is not good for the Human to be alone” is not primarily about marriage, but about human companionship—the animals couldn’t be the equal partner the Human needed, so another Human was made, crafted from bone-of-bone and flesh-of-flesh. And then there’s that simple, powerful image in Genesis 3: God, seeking out the Human, to walk with them in the cool of the day in the shade of a garden.

But these first humans choose a different path. They choose proud selfishness over humble, trusting love, and the results are devastating: guilt and shame, futility and suffering, hostility and exclusion, everything that is not-love, everything that is not-life.

We’ve been choosing that path ever since. All too often, we follow in these tragic footsteps of our forebears, choosing self and separation over love and life. Danielle Lierow’s awful story is like a microcosm of our larger human story—exclusion, isolation, made for love yet untouched by it.

We often do this to others, whether in extreme ways like Dani’s case, or on a smaller scale with our everyday harms, or on a massive scale with our violent extremisms and weaponized war zones. Unlike Dani’s story, we often also do this to ourselves.

This is the story of Eden: humans banished from God’s paradise, isolated from God’s loving presence, not because of God’s desire, but because of our own distorted, selfish desires.

Salvi - Virgin and ChildAnd yet, as the stories of Scripture unfold, the story of God’s love continues on. God seeks out unlikely dance partners, everyone from Noah to Abraham, from Hagar to Jacob to Moses to Ruth. God handpicks David, the runt of the litter, and calls him King, and promises an enduring kingdom, God’s kingdom on earth.

God woos Israel like a lover. God nurses Israel like a mother. This is God’s hesed, Yahweh’s faithful love: unexpected, undeserved, unending.

Still the separation continues: Israel goes their own way, like sheep gone astray, and the nations follow. The edges of our God-created love are frayed; the seams that bind us together are split, hanging by a thread.

It seems impossible. Hopeless.

And then love steps in.

God created human beings to love and be loved, in the flesh—and so God comes in the flesh. In Jesus God becomes one of us: from beating-heart fetus to swaddling-clothed baby to rambunctious boy to full-grown man. In Jesus God takes on our hopes and fears, our joys and sorrows, our deepest desires and greatest longings.

God created human beings to love and be loved, through thick and thin—and so God enters the thickest and thinnest times of human life. In Jesus God walks our path: birth and health and sickness and fear, laughter and weeping and loneliness and temptation, stress and anger and spasms of joy. In Jesus God walks with us through death, through death into resurrection life.

This, all this, is love.

No more separation, no more distance, no more isolation. God has opened the door and stepped in, swept away the filth and swept us up in his arms.

We are created to love and be loved in the flesh. Heard. Seen. Touched. Held. Through thick and thin.

And this is exactly what Scripture says has happened in Jesus. Listen to these words from 1 John:

We declare to you what was from the beginning, what we have heard, what we have seen with our eyes, what we have looked at and touched with our hands, concerning the word of life—this life was revealed, and we have seen it and testify to it.

God is love. God’s love was revealed among us in this way: God sent his only Son into the world so that we might live through him.

Beloved, since God loved us so much, we also ought to love one another. No one has ever seen God; if we love one another, God lives in us, and his love is perfected in us.

The mystery of God’s love is revealed in Jesus, in the flesh, through thick and thin. And when we ourselves love in the way of God, the way of Jesus—loving and being loved, in the flesh, through thick and thin—the mystery of God’s love is revealed among us afresh.

It has always been so. During this Advent season and beyond, may it be so for us again.

This post is excerpted from my sermon preached at Morden Mennonite Church on Second Advent, Dec. 6, 2015. Cross-posted from http://www.mordenmennonitechurch.wordpress.com. © Michael W. Pahl.

Refugee Jesus

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Let me paint a picture for you.

A family is fleeing for their lives: a husband and wife, with a child.

They are Middle Eastern: olive-skinned and brown-eyed, the man with thick, dark, curly hair and a finely trimmed beard, the woman with a shawl over her head, carrying the young child in her arms.

They stop to rest. They fled as soon as they heard the news—soldiers coming, coming to kill—and they’ve been on the move for 24 hours. Twenty-four hours through hills and desert, along a road by the sea, all their worldly possessions on their backs, or in their arms. They need to rest.

They stop at the crook of a stream, away from the traffic of the main road. They should be safe now, but one can never be too sure. They settle in for a restless night, snatches of sleep amidst dreams of terror.

The man keeps watch, one eye back on the road, the other on his wife and child. He feels all the things you would expect of any man: protectiveness, pride, worry, struggling to be strong for them.

Tomorrow will be a better day. Tomorrow has to be a better day.

The picture is one that has been seen all too often over the years. Too many years, but even more so in recent years. A refugee family, fleeing violence and terror, traumatized by the past, trying to look to the future.

We’ve heard the numbers. More than 60 million people worldwide forced to flee their homes because of war, persecution, or natural disaster. More than 10 million in Syria alone, of whom 4 million have been forced to leave the country. More than half of that 4 million are children. The worst refugee crisis in 70 years, since World War II.

We’ve also heard the stories. Whole cities, utterly destroyed. Mosques, churches, hospitals, burning. Boats capsizing, too many passengers, drowning. A boy washing up on a Mediterranean beach.

And we’ve been reminded of the stories from our own past. Our parents, or our grandparents, or our great-grandparents, themselves refugees fleeing war and violence for the safe haven of Canada.

So this picture—a refugee family, fleeing violence and terror, traumatized by the past, trying to look to the future—is an all too common one in our world.

But that picture I painted for you is actually of a particular refugee family, from 2,000 years ago. The picture I painted is of Joseph, and Mary, and the child Jesus, fleeing the violence and terror of Herod’s jealous anger, fleeing south to Egypt, fleeing as refugees.

The story is told in Matthew’s Gospel. It’s part of Matthew’s version of the Christmas story, but it’s not one we typically highlight in our church nativity plays. It’s much more comforting and cozy to end with the Wise Men kneeling before the baby Jesus tucked away in the manger. Herod’s slaughter of the infants, the Holy Family’s flight to Egypt as refugees—that’s not typical children’s story material.

And yet there it is, plain as the nose on Rudolph’s face: Jesus was a refugee, one of hundreds of thousands of Middle Eastern refugees over the centuries.

Many of you attend churches that celebrate Advent in some way: perhaps lighting Advent candles, maybe focusing on Advent themes, in the four weeks leading up to Christmas. In Advent, Christians look in two directions: we look back to the first coming of the Messiah, the baby sleeping in a manger; and we look forward to the second coming of the Messiah, the king sitting on his throne.

And so it’s appropriate for us not just to look back to the often untold Christmas picture of Jesus the refugee, but also to look forward to the often ignored Second Coming picture of Jesus the judge.

The picture is also painted for us in Matthew’s Gospel.

When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on the throne of his glory. All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats, and he will put the sheep at his right hand and the goats at the left.

Then the king will say to those at his right hand, ‘Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.’

Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?’

And the king will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you did it to me.’

Then he will say to those at his left hand, ‘You that are accursed, depart from me into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels; for I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, naked and you did not give me clothing, sick and in prison and you did not visit me.’

Then they also will answer, ‘Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not take care of you?’

Then he will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me.’ And these will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life.

It’s a sobering picture. A judge. A judgment. A reward. A punishment.

And most sobering of all is what the judge looks for in that last day. Have you given food to the hungry? Have you given drink to the thirsty? Have you given clothing to the naked? Have you welcomed the stranger?

And most surprising of all is that the judge—Jesus—puts his own face on the faceless hungry and thirsty, the faceless naked, the faceless stranger. What we do for these, we do for Jesus himself.

Lentz - Christ of MaryknollJesus as “the least of these.” Jesus hungry, thirsty, naked. Jesus as a stranger, an outsider, a foreigner, in desperate need.

It’s hard not to wonder if Matthew’s Jesus was thinking back to his own experience, back to his own experience as a refugee child. I wonder, who welcomed him in with Joseph and Mary? Who fed him, and clothed him, when he was one of “the least of these”?

This Advent and Christmas season, I invite you to consider Jesus the refugee. I invite you to consider the refugee as Jesus. I invite you to resist fear and step out in faith, to step out in compassion for those around the world who are “the least of these,” the stranger waiting to be welcomed.

This post is adapted from a talk I gave this morning at the Morden Men’s Prayer Breakfast. Cross-posted from http://www.mordenmennonitechurch.wordpress.com. © Michael W. Pahl.

Christians Need to Be More Conservative, Not Less

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It’s happened again.

The other day someone casually referred to me as “liberal” (don’t worry, Peter, I don’t hold it against you). Every time that happens I kind of smile to myself—if it’s said innocently—or else I cringe inwardly—if it’s said pejoratively.

It’s not that I particularly mind being called “liberal.” In some circles that’s the worst thing anyone can be. But the word can be a wonderful compliment: think of a doctor who is “liberal” with their time, or a wealthy person who is “liberal” with their charitable giving. (Or maybe a Christian who is “liberal” with their love, “liberal” in the grace and mercy they show to others…?)

It’s more that the word doesn’t really fit me in the way people seem to think.

Most often people seem to think I am theologically “liberal.” That’s very strange.

They might mean (though I doubt it) that I hold to classic liberal theology, that I’m a disciple of Friedrich Schleiermacher or Adolf von Harnack. But I don’t, and I’m not.

Or they might mean (more likely) that I don’t believe in the classic doctrines of Christianity, that I am not theologically “orthodox.” But I do, and I am.

I believe in the Trinity, one God in three persons. I believe that Jesus is truly God and truly man. I hold fast to the good news of salvation through Jesus, Messiah and Lord and Son of God, who died for our sins and was bodily resurrected. I look to the Scriptures as divinely inspired and authoritative for Christian belief and practice. I can recite the Apostles’ and Nicene Creeds without batting an eye or crossing my fingers behind my back—pretty much the definition of being “theologically orthodox.”

In other words, I’m actually quite conservative, theologically speaking. Within the whole spectrum of Christian beliefs through history and around the globe, I’m pretty securely on the conservative side of things.

Here’s the real issue, it seems to me: I don’t fit a lot of people’s culturally conditioned notions of how “conservative Christians” act, or what else they believe.

Beliefs like biblical inerrancy or young earth creationism or penal substitutionary atonement or the rapture have crept into Christian thinking over the past few centuries, and have become part of the package of “conservative Christianity”—but they are actually recent theological innovations, not historical Christian orthodoxy.

Likewise, things like upholding “family values” or “traditional marriage,” or being a “Christian nation,” or supporting war efforts or gun rights or free-market capitalism, or abstaining from alcohol, have become part and parcel of “conservative Christianity”—but they have actually grown out of our particular Western culture, with nothing timeless or universal about them.

Some of these sorts of things I may agree with in one sense or to a certain degree, but I hold them loosely. Other things, well beyond these examples, I have questioned and continue to wonder about. Many of these sorts of things I simply don’t believe in or agree with. Some I’m even convinced are actually harmful distortions of genuine Christian faith.

But in many “conservative Christian” circles, these kinds of beliefs and ideas and behaviours tend to get all lumped together with genuine Christian orthodoxy: believing in biblical inerrancy is on par with believing in the Trinity, upholding heterosexual marriage is on the same level as upholding the gospel, and so on.

liberalYou’ll have noticed the quotation marks around “conservative Christians” through all this. That’s not because I don’t think these folks are truly Christian. It’s partly because that’s just the common phrase used to describe Christians who hold to these kinds of views. But it’s also because I’m not convinced they really are all that conservative.

Yes, you’ve heard it here first: “conservative Christians” are not conservative enough. They need to be more conservative, not less.

They need to go back to genuine, generous, historic Christian orthodoxy—and hold fast to it, being wary of all those trendy theological innovations like biblical inerrancy or young-earth creationism.

They need to go back to the original, apostolic, gospel story of Jesus—and hold fast to it, being cautious of all those recent cultural accretions like “family values” or teetotalism.

They need to go back to our sacred Scriptures, that diverse collection of ancient human writings inspired by God—and hold fast to it, being suspicious of all those simplistic assertions of right and wrong.

We Christians—all of us—need to be more conservative, not less.

And if we do so, we might actually find ourselves becoming truly liberal—in the best senses of the word.

© Michael W. Pahl

Soul-Shaping Prayer

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Most often we pray because we want something in our circumstances to be changed. We or someone we know is facing a particular problem, a difficult situation, an obstacle of some kind, something that we feel is keeping us or them from the good that we believe God desires—and so we pray.

There’s nothing wrong that. We are, in fact, encouraged often in Scripture to pray exactly for those reasons—always, of course, entrusting the situation into God’s hands for God to accomplish the purposes God desires.

But there is another dimension to prayer, in some ways more powerful than this more popular perspective on prayer: it’s the way that prayer changes us.

Rembrandt Woman at PrayerThe practice of soul-shaping prayer—known by other names, too, sometimes called “imprinting prayer”—is praying with the goal of allowing the prayer itself to change us, to change the way we think, the way we feel, to change the way we see the world around us, the way we look at our circumstances and make sense of our experiences.

Of course, all sorts of studies have described the health benefits of consistent prayer or meditation—all that reducing external stimuli, slowing your breathing, focusing your thoughts, creating emotional and psychological distance from your circumstances and problems, and so on, helps in all kinds of ways. But I’m talking about prayer that shapes our souls, prayer that shapes the way we think, the way we feel, the way we live our lives from the inside out.

All prayer can be soul-shaping. Just having a consistent practice of prayer in your life will inevitably shape the way you view the world, the way you look at others, the way you live out your faith as a follower of Jesus. Sometimes, though, it is helpful to engage in some intentional soul-shaping prayer: a spiritual discipline which has a long history in the life of the Church.

You don’t need much to practice this kind of intentional soul-shaping prayer.

First, you need a set prayer worthy of reflection and repetition. Prayers that have been tested by time—like the Lord’s Prayer, or the Magnificat, or the Twenty-Third Psalm—are great for this, and you can find dozens of good, time-tested prayers online or in prayer books of various kinds.

Many readers of this blog have been influenced by Anabaptism or Evangelicalism or other non-liturgical Christian traditions, and so might be a little suspicious of set prayers. These are someone else’s words, not ours, so we fear insincerity, a dishonest heart before God or others. But of course insincerity is possible even with spontaneous, extemporaneous prayers, and we can certainly pray set prayers with deep sincerity—in fact, such open honesty before God is vital for this prayer to change us.

Second, you need time and willingness to pray this prayer repeatedly and thoughtfully. Once again, our red flags go up. Didn’t Jesus condemn the babbling, repetitious prayers of pagans, thinking they will be heard because of their many words? Yes, he did. Jesus condemned a magical view of prayer, that particular words have particular power in themselves, that if you pile up all the divine names and magical words you can think of you’ll somehow be able to coerce the gods into giving you what you want.

And that’s exactly what “soul-shaping prayer” is not. It’s not about coercing God into giving you something, nor does it attribute the set words with any sort of magical power. Rather, it’s about prayerfully reflecting on the ideas behind the words, and allowing God to shape your thinking and your feeling and your will and your actions in the process.

Which leads to the third thing you need: a heart open to being changed by God as you pray. This is the goal of intentional, soul-shaping prayer. The goal of this kind of prayer is not, “God give me this!” or “God, do this for that person!” It’s “God, change my mind, my heart, my soul, change my life from the inside out.”

Let me walk through what this soul-shaping prayer can look like—at least the way it works for me—and to do so I want to use a prayer that comes out of Mark’s story of blind Bartimaeus, healed by Jesus.

The prayer of Bartimaeus in this story—“Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!”—has been transformed into one of the most frequently prayed prayers of Christian history, the so-called “Jesus Prayer.” The Jesus Prayer takes the prayer of Bartimaeus, combines it with the prayer of the tax collector in one of Jesus’ stories (Luke 18:13, “God, have mercy on me, a sinner!”), mixes in the most common early Christian confessions (“Jesus is Lord,” “Jesus is the Christ,” and “Jesus is the Son of God”), and creates a prayer perfect for soul-shaping: “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, the sinner!”

When might I pray this prayer? Maybe it’s a moment in which I feel the need to confess a particular sin. Maybe it’s a time when I am at a loss as to what to do, or I’m feeling like people or circumstances are conspiring against me—in other words, a time when I feel the need for God’s mercy. Or maybe it is simply prompted by a desire to reflect on who Jesus is, to remind myself of who it is I’m following.

I begin by quieting my surroundings—closing the door, turning off the music, maybe going for a walk or a drive, finding that place of quiet solitude. Then I pray the prayer through several times, gradually more slowly, taking time to reflect on each idea in the prayer, paraphrasing each word, each phrase, pondering what it means for me.

  • “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the Living God, have mercy on me, the sinner!”
  • “Jesus”—you are Jesus, the man from Nazareth, the one who healed the sick and touched the lepers and embraced the children and ate with sinners and taught the disciples and confronted the powers and suffered for others and died and the cross and rose from the dead. You ate with sinners! Have mercy on me, Jesus. You healed the sick! Have mercy on me, Jesus.
  • “Lord Jesus”—Jesus, you are Lord over all, you are my Lord, I am yours, all is yours. You are Lord over my life, my circumstances! Have mercy on me, Jesus. You are Lord over nations! Have mercy on us all, Jesus.
  • “Jesus Christ”—Jesus, you are Messiah, Son of David, bringer of God’s kingdom, establishing peace and justice through your self-giving, suffering love. You are the Suffering Servant, the Crucified Messiah! Have mercy on me, Jesus.
  • “Son of God”—Jesus, you are the Son of God, God the Son. You are the one who shows us who God is, you are God in the flesh! Have mercy on me, Jesus.
  • “Have mercy on me, the sinner”—I am a sinner, I am right there with everyone else, doing things that destroy myself and others, doing things that degrade others and all creation, doing things that defame you, O God. I am one of those “sinners” you ate with, Jesus, those outcasts which you embraced. Have mercy on me, Jesus.
  • “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, the sinner!”

This is how I might pray the Jesus Prayer as soul-shaping prayer. And in the process I become like Bartimaeus: I am changed, I see things more clearly, I become a better follower of Jesus.

I’m reminded of who this Jesus is who I am following—and so I have greater confidence to follow him more faithfully, my Lord, my King, my God.

I’m reminded of what he came to do, how he lived and how he died—and so I seek to do the same things, to embrace the “other” and teach Jesus’ followers and confront this world’s evil powers and give myself in suffering love for others, all to help bring God’s kingdom of peace and justice to the earth, just as it is in heaven.

And I’m reminded both that I am in need of God’s mercy, and that God willingly shows his mercy to me in Jesus—and so I try to show mercy to others around me, who are all in the same boat as I am.

I suspect many Christians have practiced soul-shaping prayer without calling it that. For at least some this is a new and even strange way to pray, something outside our normal experience of prayer: of thanksgiving, or confession, or petition, or intercession.

Regardless, I encourage everyone  to try this intentional, soul-shaping prayer—and see if God doesn’t begin to change your attitudes, your values, your perspectives on your circumstances, the way you look at other people, the way you live your life each day.

Check out my Twitter account over the next few days under the hashtag #SoulShapingPrayer for some examples of short and sweet prayers to shape the soul.

Cross-posted from http://www.mordenmennonitechurch.wordpress.com. © Michael W. Pahl.