Mourning reflections

In this post at StreetProphets, I found what I was getting at:

In the so called Christian west there are modern efforts to bring boundaries to war by enlightenment internationalists and the inheritors of just war thinking. Various covenants and protocols are in place that prescribe treatment of detainees and guidelines on the treatment of civilians for armies of occupation. In the wake of this growing body of international law and the recovery of enemy loving teachings among Christians, governments have resorted to two track war making.

The public face of war making are the uniformed soldiers with their attendant weapons of modern warfare including all kinds of high tech equipment often justified as being inherently less destructive. The other track, the shadow side, contains war making at much more vicious level that can be regarded as the application of terror on enemy populations including civilians. Many of us choose to see the visible expressions of the security state, the uniformed soldier, but are mystified by or choose not to believe that "civilized" nations Christian, Muslim or Jewish, practice assassination, torture, destruction of whole cities with dimly lit underworld programs.

Despite the fact that thoughtful military historians report that these expressions of terror rarely achieve the desired ends of national security, planners and politicians continue to use these means.

"These expressions of terror rarely achieve the desired ends of national security...." And there is a reason for that. It is because these expressions are not prompted by fears of insecurity, or even by identity and boundary issues, such as "What nation/culture do I live in, if it isn't a simply Judeo-Christian one?" That's the cry of the "war on Christmas."

But the issue of terror, and its use by rogue groups and nation-states, is simply the cry of power, seeking its own end, the unstoppable force destroying every obstacle in its path, until it meets the unmoveable object.

And that object is the Christchild.

Unmoveable not because it is more permanent than power, or more able to resist. That would be nonsense. Power cannot resist power, anymore than power is the answer to power. Resisting power with more power creates a feedback loop, and the only thing fed is power. Power does not cancel itself; it increases itself. So the answer to power is not ultimate power, because there is no such thing.

The answer to power is powerlessness. Which is the hardest answer of all. Consider the members of the CPT:

It is hard for the missing CPTers' families. It is hard for us not knowing where our four colleagues are, how they are holding up during this time, or when they will be released. We pray; we cry; we wake up in the night feeling tense with worry. We ask God for more faith and trust as we call for their release and work to share the stories of who these men are, of the work of CPT in Iraq and other places of conflict and injustice. We care about these four men, yet we also feel the same urgency for all Iraqis and their families who are suffering fear and pain because their family members have disappeared or been killed or imprisoned.

....
Lately I feel so tired. There's always a part of me that wants just to sleep; sleep and make all of THIS - the war, my government's policies and actions, the counter-violence of the insurgency, all the greed and sin in the world - just go away for awhile. I can identify with the apathy of citizens who give in to violence: yes, just make the evil go away, press the button, fire the missile, send the young ones off to war. Take any way out.

There is no way out. But there is a way through. I tasted it the other day, when I was tired and wanted to hide, but instead went down the street to visit an Iraqi family who are going through a troubled time. On the way, I met little Huda in the street. I gave her a kiss; she gave me a piece of candy. Simple relationships, simple human connections - that's the way through.

"There is no way out. But there is a way through. Powerlessness does not offer an exit; it offers the one chance to prevail. Power opposed requires the wielding of power, and power is subject to no one's control. Power always seeks its own ends.

Powerlessness is the only answer. The powerlessness of the Christchild. The refusal to be moved from one's convictions. The refusal to give up on God.

The recognition that there is no way out; but, glory be to God, there is a way through.

What, after all, could be less powerful, than a kiss for a small child?

Hemingway's Question

Power is supposed to be about taking responsibility for your actions. That's the way we portray it in popular culture, anyway. Power, the exercise of power, the "projection of power," in the military phrase, is about responsibility. If we don't do it, someone else will. If we do project our power, we take responsibility for it. We put our lives on the line. We test our mettle on the field of battle. We risk our all in order to gain a measure of security, peace, comfort, justice, tranquility.

So how come it never works out that way?

Power is about taking responsibility for our actions. Unless the bombs drop on the wrong people. Oops. Or innocent people are hurt, or get in the way, or suffer. Sorry. Not our fault. Our intentions were good. Our morality, our ethics, say its okay to hurt you, because we had a higher purpose in mind. Our war is just because it is necessary. All that "turn the other cheek" stuff is fine, but that's for individuals: this is a matter of the comity and survival of nations. And when power doesn't solve anything, when the exercise of extreme power is not enough to secure peace and tranquility and liberty for at least our people, because at the end of the day it is our military, then there is only one solution available:

More power.

Power is also about being in control. That's the reward we are supposed to gain for taking responsibility for using it; for using our power. But power is never ours, and we are never in control of it. Nor do we purify it, make it clean and good and right, because our hearts are pure. Projectin power is the way of the tyrant and the despot as well as the benevolent and the democracy, and the ends are the same. The sole reason we can look at World War II as the "Good War" is because we didn't so much project power, as resist power. But still, power doesn't care if your heart is pure and your intentions good and your government the most representative on the planet. Representative of what? Of human greed, indifference, callousness, selfishness? Why is power projected by a democracy better than power projected by a dictator? Because the hearts of the people are pure? Or because they are us?

The answer of this Administration has been: "because they are us." It has been all about projecting power. And now that projection of power has run up against limitations. Military power can destroy a country, but as Europe learned over a century ago, it cannot secure it for the country that wields that power. Political power can gain some measure of advance of one's domestic goals, but it cannot be wielded absolutely or with impunity. Power flows from the efforts of a people to secure their liberty and tranquility; but it serves its own ends, and never the ends of the people who use it.

And so we end up in the quagmire of Iraq. In the devastation of New Orleans. With the near-wreckage of the country's ideals all around us, and an incompetent and criminal
Administration paralyzed by the very power it tried to wield, trapped in its own arrogance and up against the limitations of both national and international law. The ultimate irony: the very law that gave them power, that created political offices and put them in those offices, now threatens to bring down their entire house of cards. Will still more power rescue them this time?

The only true power, is in powerlessness. The brutal, almost unrestrained use of power by this Administration, has been a national object lesson in that simple, paradoxical truth. And the evidence of the truth, is in the clandestine way in which they know they must use their power, if they are to have it at all.

Gitmo is closed to outside observers. Meetings about national energy policy are closed to the public. Critics of the Administration are dealt with in smear campaigns and whispers deliberately leaked from behind closed doors. More energy is expended in creating schemes of subterfuge and deceit than is expended is doing the good of which government is capable (for Niebuhr was right in at least that much; government is a necessary evil). And all of this covert effort and occult maneuvering has one purpose: to allow this Administration to wield power absolutely, and as they alone see fit.

But they aren't quite allowed to do that, and they know it. So they hide their deeds in darkness. And they desperately try to project still more power. Because if the power they have is enough, the lesson they have learned is: they just need a little more.

And how has that been working out for them? And for us?

"How do you like it now, gentlemen?"

The Paradox of Boundaries and Power

Even when I try to be as clear as I can be, apparently, I am unclear:

Sometimes, in other words, you have to compromise some of your principles in order to uphold others. The alternative is to let a small group of intransigent bullies dominate the system. This, it seems to me, is the problem that advocates of transformative politics have to answer. How is it exactly that politics are going to be transformed while the goons thoroughly control the place?

Some of my friends and colleagues have decided that the sacrifice of principle simply isn't worth it. Try to gain power, and you're dancing with the devil, they warn.

Perhaps. But the flip side to that equation is that without power, nothing can be done to protect the innocent, much less redirect a predatory political system.

There was a link in the original back to the blog of yours truly. I pity the persons following that link and trying to understand what it means. Let me clarify:

Pastor Dan and I are talking about apples and oranges. Pastor Dan wants to stay in Omelas and free the child and make the city over into the basileia tou theou. And I prefer to walk away from Omelas, because I know it cannot be remade, that Omelas cannot exist as Omelas without leaving the child in the basement; that to free the child is not to re-make Omelas, nor will it improve the child. The deal with the devil has been made, and we cannot unmake it. My proclamation of the basileia of God is as an alternative, a replacement, not a corrective.

Am I right? Do I consider myself more principled? I don't know; and no, I don't. It isn't a question of principle. I do not consider myself holier than thou, or in some way superior to Pastor Dan. That is the way of power. My way is the way of powerlessness. It is the way of humility. Does this mean bullies will continue to control the political process? Yes; just as they did in Jesus' day. It was not a generation after his crucifixion (an act of savagery that beggars description as "bullying", I know) when Roman soldiers slaughtered every man, woman, and child they could find in Jerusalem. I find references to that cataclysm in the Gospels, most likely inserted after the fact, as the Gospels themselves probably post date the destruction of Jerusalem. I find nothing in those references that is a call to arms against such horror, that is a demand that it be prevented, that is a rallying cry for an alternative political vision which will remove the brutal yoke of Roman "civilization" from the necks of the people of Israel. Indeed, the gospel message for this week (which I'll be getting to in another post) is about wars and rumors of wars; but it isn't about choosing sides for the fight. What it is about is being ready, and faithful, and trusting God to preserve those who hold fast to the way of God, the way of powerlesness, the way of the executed Savior, the Crucified God.

I've actually made this point to Pastor Dan before; but I will repeat myself, and make it again:

I'm a stickler on this point: power only and ever and always serves the ends of power. If God is not about the power of powerlessness, then Paul and I are agreed that the crucifixion was pointless, and all we're really waiting for is for God to get around to making us all believers, whether we like it or not.

But if God is about the power of powerlessness, then even taking up power in God's name is contrary to God's purpose. And a basiliea tou theou where the first are always last, and the last first, is a place with no political power at all.

My "principle" is in that first sentence. The rest is theology, and my sure conviction that the basiliea tou theou is about the race to the bottom, the race to be the servant, not the master; the race to give up power, not to attain it for whatever good purpose may be intended. Because it is my firm belief and experience that power only and ever serves the ends of power, and whoever wields it, for whatever reason, is mistaken in thinking the control it. Power serves its own ends, and it uses you as it used the person before you, and will use the person after you. It uses you only to make power effective. Does this create some sort of anthropic principle for power, give it anthropomorphism it does not deserve? Perhaps; but we cannot understand the world except for the anthropic stance of how we experience it, so I consider that a small objection indeed, in light of the larger truth it reveals.

So it isn't a principled stance on my part; it's a theological one. It is my belief, my faith, my understanding of the kerygma of the Gospel. Because if the meaning of the crucifixion was that Jesus was the ultimate power, and his resurrection the sign of the awesome power of God over all creation, then, well...we knew that, didn't we? And we are just back to the voice in the whirlwind speaking to Job, answering nothing and declaring itself justified. It means the awful agonies of the cross were just a bit of stage production by a God who couldn't be crucified, who couldn't die. It it not too much to say my entire understanding of Christianity rests on this paradox. To quote myself again:

There is no power without resistance. Power needs resistance not only to be powerful, but if it is going to exist at all. Without resistance power has no force. It is a blow against empty air, a fierce punch into darkness that meets no opposition. So power manufactures its own resistance, creates its own opponent.

It may well be there is far less difference between Pastor Dan and I than appears. After all, this discussion touches on the question of responsibility, which he claims makes him responsible for others against the power of those he identifies as bullies. There, again, I would disagree. It's a point I've made before: That which you most oppose, you most come to resemble. This is the problem with identifying yourself as opposition to whatever you consider evil. You stop identifying with your core, and start setting your boundaries against what you are not; and at precisely that point what you are not starts to define you. At that point the struggle against evil is endless, because evil is whatever you are not; and you can always find something you are not, something you are sure you must eradicate. But in seeking to eradicate that, you are seeking to eradicate yourself, because what you are not is what defines you.

Paradoxes abound.

Thomas Merton, writing about the desert fathers who fled collapsing civilization to live in the Egyptian deserts in the 4th century, said that there are times when it is every man and woman for him- or her-self, when the best you can do is to grab a piece of flotsam and hold on in the flood that is coming. Sometimes, in other words, the most Christian thing you can do is to save yourself, so that you can provide a witness to the world that will arise from the destruction. It may be we are in one of those times, again.

And in such times, it is not what you oppose which should define you.

"Beelzebub has a devil set aside for me!"

I am so going to orthodox hell some day. Scribbled this down in haste over the weekend. It's less a proper essay or consideration of issues than a bit of wool-gathering. So it is offered as it was written, not as it was reconsidered (which it hasn't been, yet.)

Without rules we have no hope—but that principle applies to government, not churches.

What is the rule of the church? From what does it derive its authority? The Word of God? Or the consent of the people?

Do not dismiss consent too lightly. God offers covenant; God does not demand obedience simply by being God. That is the perversion of God by humanity. God does not tell Abraham: “I will show you a new land, or you can go to hell.” God does not tell anyone in the Hebrew scriptures to go to hell. Nor does Jesus. Nor does Paul. Hell is not the alternative to God. Hell is the alternative to accepting the power of certain persons. Hell is always brokered by humanity, the stick held out with the carrot not by God, but by humans: humans who want control, humans who want compliance. Humans, seeking consent from other humans.

Elizabeth I knew all about compliance, control, the carrot and the stick. So the Anglican Church was offered as a compromise: the liturgy of the Roman Catholic church; the theology of the Reformers. A compromise, because even queens know that rule depends on the consent of the governed. If we do not agree to abide by the rules, the rules are meaningless. But if we don’t act as if the rules apply even when someone, anyone, else refuses to abide by them, the rules are meaningless. The rules, finally, are the only thing that stand between us and chaos, between society and anarchy. In that much, at least, Hobbes was right. Cut down all the rules, as Thomas More said in Robert Bolt’s play, and soon there is nothing left between you and the Devil.

But here’s the tricky thing about rules: you can only cut them down for you. You can’t cut them down for me. You may remove all the rules, imprison me, torture me, kill me, eradicate every trace of me, my friends, my family, my culture. When you are done, the Devil will still come only after you. Because I am gone? No. Because the rules still apply to me. So long as I abide by the rules, the rules keep the Devil from me. And you are not the Devil. You are never that powerful. The rules protect me, but the lack of rules let the Devil defeat you.

And who is the Devil? Not Satan. Not a personification of evil, or an evil power, or even a metaphor. The Devil is quite real (deny its existence at your peril). The Devil is Power.

Power seeks its own ends, and uses those who would wield it as their means. Power is the Devil that turns on you when all the laws are cut down like trees, because power is the one that whispered in your ear and showed you the axe and urged you to wield it, all the better to be free, to do good, to be in control, destroy evil, establish the kingdom, defend the church, claim the trademark, call it what you will. Power told you to do it, convinced you that you were in control, that all you were doing was for good, that you in the end would be the most powerful.

And when all the trees are down and your power is at last unopposed and free, Power seeks its own end, its freedom. And Power turns on you. Turns on you because there is no reason not to. Because you are just a means to an end. Because Power is ever and always only an end in itself. And that is why Power is the Devil.

So you can you defeat power except to accept the power of powerlessness? This is the power of the consent of the governed. Giving up power, they lay no claim to power, do not seek to use it as a means, do not give it reign to become its own end. Power is thwarted only when it is not used. If all who are governed agree to what is done, there is no power. If none resist, there is no power; because there is no power without resistance. This is the model of the baslieia tou theou. This is the model of the Body of Christ.

But you will say, what of war? Surely the governed consent to war? But war is precisely the thwarting of the consent of the governed. Did the people of Iraq consent to our governance of them, governance imposed by invasion? (under international law our invasion and toppling of their government made us the governors of the country, and the government. Now our President, at least, acts as if he has a moral duty to stay and pacify the country.) And the results are entirely predictable. Any exertion of power over another is an exertion against consent; and it fails. Jesus never demands: “Follow me or go to hell.” Jesus only offers: “Follow me.” Or puts even less of a burden on us (how many people does Jesus encounter but never call to discipleship?), and only offers a blessing: “Your sins are forgiven.” Jesus eschews all exertions of power, and acquiesces to the consent of the governed, even, as Paul says, to death: death on a cross. And thereby points out that we must acquiesce, too. This is the beginning of Christian humility.

Back, at last, to the Anglican Communion. Do Anglicans the world over gather as a church in response to the preamble to the Constitution of the Episcopal Church, the rules of the Canadian church, the bylaws of the African church? Do they come to worship with the Windsor Report on their hearts, or resolution B033 on their lips? Is what joins them together the pronouncements of Bishop Akinola, Archibishop Williams, Presiding Bishop-Elect Schori?

No. Of course not. They come together in the work of the people (leitourgia) expressed in the Book of Common Prayer. They consent to the confessions of the Nicene and Apostle’s Creeds. Interpretation of scripture is left to individual conscience. What is important to the Body is reached by consent. The only question for the Communion is: how far must consent extend? Whose consent must be sought?

If it is the consent only of the governed, then it is only the consent of those who are governed by the decision. If there is a question of who is permitted to be in relationship with me, as a bishop or otherwise member of the church, that is a decision for that body. But the rejection, is also the responsibility of that body. It may be the authority for the church comes from the Word of God. But it is the consent of the governed that determines what that authority says, and how it is complied with.

That's me in the spotlight....

I should be inspired by an internet article that tries to discuss TV's ideas about religion, especially when I basically agree with the premise as presented in the sub-headline: "TV portrays religion in a number of ways. What hasn’t been considered as often is the purpose of faith."  Too true; all too true.  Of course, there are problems with defining "faith" apart from "religion," because the definition of "faith" usually has to do with what you believe (not who you trust, or "have faith in"), and then we start arguing over whether religion is a social construct while "faith" is something individuals engage in, and the whole thing goes right off the rails.

The actual discussion, however, is about TV shows:  "The Exorcist," "Penny Dreadful," "Preacher," and "The Good Place."  I'm not familiar with any of them (I plan to catch up on "Penny Dreadful" on Netflix at some point, but then again, I might not.  It's not compelling me; and I never considered it as having anything to do with religion.).  "The Exorcist" is an extension of the novel/movie, but with two different priests (both fairly young, apparently; gotta get the demographic) fighting demons; oh, and the Catholic church bureaucracy, which I suppose is a bone to Clint Eastwood fans, or something.      Well, always gotta fight the power, or the Man; amirite?  Oh, "Exorcist" is thematically connected to "Outcast," where a village is apparently plagued by demons.  Sounds a little like Stephen King to me, but what do I know?  I don't know how these two are connected to "Preacher," except that in that one the title character carries around a being called "Genesis" (Biblical, get it?) and sets up a conversation between a church congregation and God.  According to the article that conversation doesn't go well (if it did the TV show would end abruptly, I guess); but then again Jonathan Edwards would have something to say about sinners in the hands of God.  Annie Dillard would, too; but maybe I'm getting too literary for television.

You might be noticing a pattern here, and it isn't just that TV loves action and prefers violence when it can get it.  Apparently "Penny Dreadful" includes a character who clings tenaciously to her faith, only to lose it in what the article calls "that most Victorian of evils, a broken heart."  I have to say, that's not a peculiarly Victorian evil; it certainly ranks high in modern Hollywood storylines, too.  So high my first thought is hardly that it's Victorian in nature at all.  The list goes on:  "Game of Thrones" apparently was set in motion by a loss of faith (The Red Priestess realizes her vision are false*), and this leads to an interesting (but also false) conclusion:

Notice that these shows all hang on supernatural themes. Indeed, genre television and film has long provided creators with the means to approach many existential questions, including dissections of faith, in such an oblique fashion.

Well, yeah, supernatural as opposed to religious themes, I agree.  But that's the way TV handles religion now.  Once it was schmaltzy piety, or dreary doe-eyed piety (Heavenly choirs singing in the background as the sun breaks through the clouds and enlightens a beatific actress's face, which is turned heavenward); now it's all about power.  Which, in modern understanding, is what the "supernatural" is for:  access to power, physical, visible, undeniable power.

It's a post-Romantic idea.  Scan European literature, and witches are either the Witch of Endor, in 1 Samuel, or the Delphic Oracle in Greece, two characters with a shared root:  knowledge.  The Witch of Endor is no Harry Potter-esque witch, but someone who passes on messages to Saul from Samuel.   Likewise the Delphic Oracle gave messages from the gods to humans.  Later, in European folklore collected during the Romantic interest in anthropology, witches appear as symbols of evil.  But the witch in Hansel and Gretel doesn't wave a wand over the children, and few if any of the witches in Grimm's tales exhibit the kind of power over the elements, or even objects, that we connect with the Sorcerer's Apprentice or Harry Potter.  Tolkien's Gandalf is an elder wizard of this kind; he sets off fireworks, and sparks his staff into light, but he fights with a sword and exhibits courage and knowledge, not access to supernatural powers whenever the dwarves or the Fellowship are in a tight spot and could use, say, a transportation spell.

Supernatural is our modern term, for exerting power with no seeming connection between object and human except will.  It's a metaphor grown out of the Industrial revolution.  We even comfort ourselves that "primitive tribes" (and aside from a few cargo cults, there's no real evidence for it) would think our technology "magic" if they were to see it.  But that's what we call magic; their culture may simply call it "power."

That's the connection between all those stories:  access to power.  It's what we've been seeking ever since we found energy sources that would give us machines of power, and since we found the power latent in petroleum, it has made us power mad, indeed.  So our presentations of religion in popular culture, which amount to discussions of religion in the public square, turn on access to power and the use of power:  power to control demons, or power to confront God, or just the old complaint that the gods don't listen and don't care, and won't share their power.  What good is God, after all, if God won't share power?

And what if the omnipotent being whom we call by so many names, refuses to intervene when we need it most? What if it doesn’t know anything?

Because knowledge, you know, is power.  We think that's universal, too, except in the most famous case of the Oracle speaking for the gods, and of Tiresias speaking truth to power, Oedipus found knowledge left him powerless.   If God won't intervene when we need it, if God won't even make a display of God's power, what good is God?

64:1 O that you would tear open the heavens and come down, so that the mountains would quake at your presence--

64:2 as when fire kindles brushwood and the fire causes water to boil-- to make your name known to your adversaries, so that the nations might tremble at your presence!

64:3 When you did awesome deeds that we did not expect, you came down, the mountains quaked at your presence.

Isaiah 64:1-3.  Like I said, it's a very old question.  And it's a very old demand:  a demand that God display some power.  Not that Isaiah continues in that vein:

64:4 From ages past no one has heard, no ear has perceived, no eye has seen any God besides you, who works for those who wait for him.

64:5 You meet those who gladly do right, those who remember you in your ways. But you were angry, and we sinned; because you hid yourself we transgressed.

64:6 We have all become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous deeds are like a filthy cloth. We all fade like a leaf, and our iniquities, like the wind, take us away.

64:7 There is no one who calls on your name, or attempts to take hold of you; for you have hidden your face from us, and have delivered us into the hand of our iniquity.

64:8 Yet, O LORD, you are our Father; we are the clay, and you are our potter; we are all the work of your hand.

64:9 Do not be exceedingly angry, O LORD, and do not remember iniquity forever. Now consider, we are all your people.

That's the part nobody on TeeVee wants:  the patience, the humility, the trust.  The trust!  Yes, the faith in God.  "No ear has perceived, no eye has seen any God besides you, who works for those who wait for him."  That line in particular hearkens back to the scripture where God did "come down" and kindle the brushwood.  It didn't happen on command, or with a snap of a priest's fingers, or with the incantation of a spell.  And who wants to say on TV:  "You meet those gladly who do right, those who remember you in your ways....O LORD, you are our Father; we are the clay, and you are our potter; we are all the work of your hand."

That is an expression of faith; that is an expression of trust.  From the cry of anguish in verse 1, to that statement of absolute faith (trust) in verse 9; how do you fit that into a TV script, and make the conflict anything any audience would sit still for?

So you get the Hollywood version.  And in the Hollywood version God is not just power but access to power, and if we can't invoke God's power, where's the drama, where's the interest, what do we do with this Jep ("woman in jeopardy," an old standard of TV writing which still holds true to this day.  Go ahead, look for the "Jep" in the first few minutes of the next TV drama you care to watch.  You'll probably find one pretty quickly.  Hollywood learned early on that when there's a Jep in the first 15 minutes of less, the audience stays to the end to find out what happened.)?  So God in Hollywood is all about access to power.  Without that, where's the drama?**

Take "Constantine," the Keanu Reeves movie I always enjoying watching over and over again.  Of course it's the Catholic church as video game, chockfull not of matters of faith, but of the power of the supernatural; and God is the most supernatural of all.  Constantine wins because he invokes the power, and finally the powerlessness, of God (yeah, it's funny that the powerlessness is what wins; just like it does for Harry Potter.  But that's another story....).  Because if God can't come down and kindle the brushwood, then Constantine will have to do it with a few spells and efforts of will; because, after all, the people paid to see a show.

*Which brings to mind another story by George R.R. Martin, about a future in which a priest roots out Christian heresies on various planets and is sent to destroy the Gospel of St. Judas, a completely fictionalized account, as its author and priest readily admits.  The idea is that such a fake undermines the faith anyone could have in the Gospels (or the church as Martin imagines it; another fake RC construct, basically), which can be no better defended against charges of falsehood than this new "gospel."  The idea is not too dissimilar to Arthur Clarke's much earlier story "The Star," where a Jesuit astronomer travels to a dead star, only to find evidence it wiped out a glorious civilization on an orbiting planet when it went nova, and did so at just the right time to signal the birth of the Christ for Matthew to record.  This creates a crisis of faith in the astronomer, which shows a laughable disregard for the realities of Jesuit training and the historicity of the gospels.  But primarily both stories show a ludicrous notion of what religious faith is.

**Otherwise the drama is just about personal anguish, as in "Agnes of God" or "Doubt."  And while both movies were fairly dramatic (if uneven), who wants to see that every week for 26 weeks?

The Power of Powerlessness

Diogenes sez (in the comments):

I think that is what is so powerful (for me) about the Jesus story. My rendition of him in my own heart and mind has him not about control and power in the least but about giving. I should point out that such a conception is completely the opposite of that of many of the "Christians" of today who simply desire to control and salivate at the thought of being in power (see the latest from Radical Cleric Dobson for evidence of this).

The story of the Gospels is, fundamentally, the story of the power of powerlessness. In history (v. the Gospel stories, where the authors and their communities had reason to fear Roman reprisals for criticizing Roman power), Jesus of Nazareth was executed for being a threat (however small) to the Pax Romana. The story of Pilate equivocating over the execution is a dubious one. Pilate was finally removed from Judea for being too harsh; not for being tender-hearted.

We would do well to remember, too, that the Feast of the Passover was a 'national' event for Israel, a reminder of it's status as a sovereign nation, once upon a time. Pilate's palace looked over the walls of the Temple courtyard so Roman soldiers could keep an eye on this annual event. Rome was very jealous of its authority, and brooked little disagreement with its rule. And also, crucifixion was a peculiarly Roman form of execution (and a peculiarly brutal one), reserved for political prisoners (think of the final scene of "Spartacus," for example). So it's likely no accident the crucifixion occured at such a politically charged time.

By submitting to execution, Jesus submitted to human power, but proved it powerless. It was, in fact, the only way. There is no power without resistance, and by refusing to offer resistance to the ultimate human power, the power to kill, God puts human power and limitations in their place. Not by superiority, but by weakness, and by being, as Jesus himself would say, the God of the living, not the dead. God is the god of life. And life, ultimately, is more powerful than death. As John Donne said, "Death, be not proud," because, in the final paradox, of all that is, alone "death, thou shalt die."

Addendum: the power of powerlessness is, of course, also the story of Christmas, and Epiphany.

Being A Pope Francis

In a world of Jeffery Epsteins and Steve Bannons be a Pope Francis https://t.co/MYmRbvhDe2

— Mike Madrid (@madrid_mike) February 14, 2026

I would amend this slightly. We don’t live in a world of Epsteins and Bannons. They would like us to think we do; as they would like to be. But the truth is duller, and more comforting.

Nobody had heard of Jeffrey Epstein before Q made the Epstein files a force to be reckoned with. There’s no mistake that Epstein was a monster. He was mysteriously rich, and knew how to ingratiate himself to rich people (and steal from them, it strongly appears).  But what power did he have, that money didn’t give him?

That’s not a small thing,  and I’m not being glib. But for all his wealth and contacts, Epstein was not a mover or a shaker. He had contacts with many people, famous and behind the scenes, and he cultivated influence. To what end? He died in a jail cell which he was unlikely to leave again, except for another one. His name is now anathema, his memory a curse, his associations with anyone making them pariahs. This is a power, extending beyond death, but hardly one that others envy. If this is a world of Epsteins, why is his almost as despised as Hitler’s?

And Bannon? Bannon is a toady no one knew until Trump ran for office. In the record left behind, Epstein wasn’t too interested in the plan to attack Pope Francis through a spurious documentary. It was proposed while Epstein was imprisoned for the last time; he had other things on his mind. Bannon wanted Epstein to produce it (and provide the money). No one ever accused Bannon of being able to read the room. Or of being independently important, or powerful.

This is not a world of Epsteins and Bannons; it is a world much more closely aligned with Pope Francis. Bannons and Epsteins think they run the world because they associate with people with money; very large amounts of money. These people all think money makes the world go ‘round. And who can doubt it? Except the people with all the money are more convinced of their power and authority and importance, than the vast majority of the world which doesn’t have that money. Money is power, but it is not in any sense the only power, or even the ultimate power. The real power in this world is what Francis represented, the reason Bannon reacted so strongly to Francis, and why he wanted to ruin Francis in scandal if he could (he couldn’t). What Francis knew was the power of powerlessness.

And that’s what Bannon is really afraid of.

Because what Epstein (and in many ways, Francis) is that, if we give the people with the most money the most power, why are we doing that?

Epstein victim Virginia Giuffre: “I was trafficked to a lot of types of different men — billionaires, royalty… he used me as a form of blackmail so these people would owe him favors.” pic.twitter.com/vuiExb6NRP

— The Tennessee Holler (@TheTNHoller) February 15, 2026

If the elite are that rotten, why do we tolerate them as powerful and elite? What are we tolerating, and why are we tolerating it? Far more dangerous questions than Francis led us to ask. Or are they? Take three stories from the gospels seriously, treat them as important, and where does the value system of money = power, stand?

The three I mean are Matthew’s parable of the sheep and the goats: “Lord, when did see you?” Luke’s beatitudes: “Congratulations, you poor!” And John’s sacrament that wasn’t, when John replaces the communion of Mark, Matthew, Luke and Paul, with Jesus playing servant to his disciples, and washing their feet. Serving the least among us are when we serve God. The poorest among us (the least also? Is that the measure?) will have God’s domain. And the first of all is literally the last and servant of all.

Pope Francis powerfully represented that ideal, that teaching, that spirit. No wonder Bannon was afraid.

It’s not a world of Bannons and Epsteins; and that’s what scares them the most. That the power they put so much importance in, isn’t that powerful after all. There is a greater power, and it is expressed in powerlessness.

Nothing new under the sun

There's nothing really new in this excerpt from Bart Ehrman's newest book. In fact, a quick look in my archives revealed he's just plowing ground already plowed by Reza Aslan about a year ago.  I don't want to repost that post, but I do want to highlight something from it by my New Testament professor in seminary:

The intellectual challenge of the Enlightenment was really about the ability and authority to name what is true and what is not.  Insofar as the Bible is finally about ultimate reality, that is, ultimate truth, the question of the historicity of the Bible, and with it the question of the historical Jesus, has always been bound up closely with the search for Truth.  The quest for the historical Jesus has, from its very beginning, also been about the search for God.  

The God of Jesus:  The Historical Jesus and the Search for Meaning (Harrisburg, Pennsyvlania.  Trinity Press International, 1998). p. 28.

I mention that because the comments at Salon are filled mostly by people denying the historical Jesus based on a great deal of ignorance and hot air.  What's interesting is not their insistence that Jesus of Nazareth is a fictional character, but the vociferousness with which they insist it.  And if I dropped this quote in that discussion, it would be like tossing a water balloon into the monkey house:  the flinging of poo would go on for hours.

For example, the idea that Jesus is a fictional character, and that only a few truly wise are now aware of this vast historical conspiracy, is laughable on its face.  But to put a bit of history and scholarship into the conversation:

"And so with the experience of Jesus, the experience (later) of the Resurrection:  it is decisive, even if today it is derided.  Denounce it, but it cannot be destroyed.  Why not?  Augustus Caesar was a "son of God," as was Tiberius after him.  Augustus was even thought to have been resurrected; so Jesus' resurrection was not unique in world history (although I've spoken of it here as if it was).  But why did Jesus' resurrection, and his life, have such an impact, while Augustus' didn't?  Jesus was an itinerant peasant from a Roman backwater who died a shaming and mostly overlooked death.  But Augustus?

Now, there was a religion.  All over the Mediterranean world one can find its legacy still today in grand temples and arches, dedicated to the gods "Roma and Augustus."  Rome was very clear about what it believed in.  It believed in power.  No one embodied that more than Augustus.  He conquered lands far and wide, from which great treasures were extracted.  He subjugated cultures, gave them a new language and new institutions.  He quashed rebellions.  His life was one great manifestation of power.  The imperial cult was about power.  And the great thing about a religion of power is that it provides its own authentication:  victory reveals the favor of the gods.  Resurrection became the ultimate symbol of that religion:  the final victory.  The ultimate bestowal of power was to rise beyond the limits of this world to join the great pantheon of the gods in heaven.

"Patterson. p. 51.

"Look on my works, ye mighty; and despair."  Some echo of the institutions of Augustus remain in Europe and, through Britain particularly, around the world.  But even the language Augustus imposed on others is dead.  And where is the religion he embodied?  It was a religion of power, of the lessons of the world.  Why did it vanish?  Maybe because "victory reveals the favor of the gods," and Rome eventually ran out of victories."

The power of powerlessness; or, perhaps, the limitations of power.  And the basis of an interesting question:  if the worship of Jesus of Nazareth is based solely on illusion and some massive 2 millennia old conspiracy, how has it lasted so much longer than the cult of Augustus, which once ruled the civilized world?  Because of Constantine?  Aside from the movie of the same name starring Keanu Reaves, how many people today have heard of Constantine?

The assertion that what Ehrman is peddling is "new" is equally laughable, and equally a lesson in power.  Salon advertises that way to draw readers; but nothing Ehrman says is any newer than when Reza Aslan said it last year.  And nothing Aslan said was new when I learned it in seminary over 15 years ago; most of it is readily available in paperback from real scholars like Patterson and Crossan, and has been for almost 2 decades now.  The arguments about the historical Jesus go back to...well, practically to the time of the historical Jesus.  What's still interesting is not the arguments, but that some people feel the need to  so strenuously maintain the arguments.  I think Patterson is right:  the quest of the historical Jesus has also been about the quest for God.

And, for the past couple of centuries, about the ability and authority to name what is true and what is not.  Which is yet another struggle for power; the lure being that power will finally pay off on its promise, and yield true power to the one who uses power to the end of the pursuit.  But the only purpose of power is to exert power; it has no other goal.  Power cannot, in the end, yield any insight, any telos, any final purpose or understanding.  Even the authority to name what is true and what is not is not in the hands of the powerful.

That authority is only in the hands of the community.  And even then, which community?  Yours?  or mine?

Aye, there's the rub.  And another reason for all the screaming, at least on the newest outlet of opinions, the intertubes.

When in Rome....

"This is not what I wanted!"

While I'm on the subject (I'm not, but I need to be), are moral (or ethical, I'll take them as the same thing here, though I think they are different) systems about punishment?  Or about right outcomes?

Let's start with that distinction I didn't want to make:  Aristotle's "ethics" were really an "ethos," which is to say, what do most people do?  What's the custom around here?  Basically Aristotle said, in the Nicomachean Ethics:  find a successful person in your community, and do what they do.  Then you will be happy, because that is the telos of ethos:  to be glad you behaved the way you did.

Not really a lot of morality there, though.

Of course, we sort of think of "ethics" as what we ought to do, and morality as what we'll get punished for not doing.  So "ethics" is almost legal:  stay within the lines, don't get caught crossing a line, don't do anything that would get you investigated for crossing a line (like, say, a Walter White, or a Dexter), and you're fine.  You are "ethical."

Moral?  Keep even your thoughts clean, because God will judge you on what is in your heart, when the day of Judgment comes, when the last Trump sounds, when the whistle blows and we all have get out of the pool and line up for inspection:  sheep on one side, goats on the other.

That's more or less how we think of it, when we think of it at all.  Ethics is what you should do, mostly to avoid trouble; morality is what you should do so you avoid punishment; or at least so you can live with yourself.  Ethics you can fake; morality, you have to be sincere about.  Iago is ethical, within limits; but he is certainly not moral., even if, in the end, he doesn't get away with his legal (ethical) violations.  Ethics is what we want to do; morals is what we ought to do.

Ethical is how we behave; morality is how we ought to be.

Alright, so what's the point of all this?  Well, it's a question of expectation:  do we behave ethically because we expect a reward?  I don't think so.  It's more so we can avoid punishment.  Morality is more popularly tied up with rewards:  the moral person goes to heaven, the immoral person:  doesn't.

But that means both are about punishment.  Back to Aristotle:  you don't get punished for not behaving ethically, but you don't get the desirable outcome, either.  The idea of a punisher waiting for you to go wrong is one we associate with the Hebrew Scriptures; but that's an entirely inaccurate picture.

When the Exile falls on Israel (an event overshadowed for Israel only by the Exodus), it isn't because God is pissed off and has decided to punish everybody for not dotting their "i's" and crossing their "t's" in the prescribed manner:  it is because Israel has so violated the terms of the covenant that God now leaves them to the fruit of their own devices.  When God relents, it isn't because Israel has suffered enough and can again earn God's love and protection; it is because God loves Israel and has Israel's attention, and tells Israelto just get back on the right course:  "And what does the Lord require of you, but to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God."  There isn't anything there about strict observance of the Torah, or a pecksniffian interest in how ritually clean the bowls are:

Your countless sacrifices, what are they to me?, says the Lord....Who asked you for all of this?....Wash and be clean; put away your evil deeds far from my sight; cease to do evil, learn to do good.  Pursue justice, guide the oppressed; uphold the rights of the fatherless; and plead the widow's cause."  (Isaiah 1: 11, 12b, 16-17, REB)

The message of the prophets is consistent on this point:  do justice, love mercy, uphold the poor and take care of them; then all is right in the land.  The law of Moses is not meant to be a handbook of strict regulations, the violation of any word of which brings down divine wrath on the nation.  It is meant to tell you how to behave, so that all will be well with you.  It is, in that sense, ethical; not moral.  It is meant to be followed because it leads to a good outcome for all; not because God is waiting to pounce on the least infraction and bring down punishment for an immorality.  The point of ethical behavior is always to live a life worth living.

I come at this from this review of Zealot by Reza Aslan, on which I'll have more to say later.  The review ends with this odd admonition:

But the better story in Zealot is the cautionary one, warning us against turning away from this world, against shrinking in the face of power, against making gods out of good men and women. These are the people we need. And we need them here. Because like “Jesus the man” — as Aslan concludes — it’s people who are “worth believing in.”

The concept (or rather misconception) of power is what I find odd there.  But it's preceded in the essay by this assertion:

My sense of who Jesus was — an illiterate peasant and radical preacher born in Nazareth, who died at the hands of Rome and was left on the cross to be devoured by animals — says a great deal about what Jesus means to me. In short, Christian ethics are entirely of this world and a threat to worldly power.

Put them together and everything important comes from us, and returns to us.  Which is not the inspiring message Scott Korb thinks it is.  But more interesting to me is the idea that Christian "ethics" are a threat to worldly power.

I suppose so, but only if we are living as the first Christians did according to the Book of Acts.  And then, even if we did, only a handful of people would really do so, and it would be just another sect of Christians no more threatening to the world order than the mainline denominations are now.   But how could Christian ethics threaten worldly power, if they were just the proclamation of a community that chose to live by them?  That, after all, is all the Hebrews, and then the Jews, ever claimed about their laws:  the laws apply to the members of the covenant with Abraham, not to all humankind.  Do Christian ethics apply to one and all?  Or do they only apply to those who confess Christianity?  And if they do, am I punished by God for not keeping them exactly as God intends (and how is that?).  Or am I simply foolish to walk away from guidelines that will keep me on the path to happiness (provided my name isn't Job)?

Here's where the ethical questions come in:  if  people are worth believing in, then Aristotle's ethics is the right one:  do what the community does, and you will be happy with the results.  And so I can ignore the poor, the homeless, the suffering, because my community finds it to be perfectly ethical for me to do so.  Some charity will do something for them; some government program will get them food; what is it to me?  I can live a perfectly ethical life ignoring their problems; I have problems of my own.  Charity begins at home.  I must think first of me and mine.  That's perfectly ethical.

And it is.  It could also be perfectly moral, in that you won't be punished for it in the sweet bye and bye.  Well, according to Mr. Korb, how could you be?  There'll be no one at "the end" to do the punishing.  But what if morality is not about punishment?  What if it is about something transcendent, transcendent even of society and ethics?

And wouldn't that transcendency, whatever it is based in, be the real threat to worldly power?

And now I must say that if I contemplate what Ethics really would have to be if there were such a science, this result seems to me quite obvious. It seems to me obvious that nothing we could ever think or say should be the thing. That we cannot write a scientific book, the subject matter of which could be intrinsically sublime and above all other subject matters. I can only describe my feeling by the metaphor, that, if a man could write a book on Ethics which really was a book on Ethics, this book would, with an explosion, destroy all the other books in the world. Our words used as we use them in science, are vessels capable only of containing and conveying meaning and sense, natural meaning and sense. Ethics, if it is anything, is supernatural and our words will only express facts; as a teacup will only hold a teacup full of water and if I were to pour out a gallon over it.

Ludwig Wittgenstein, "Ethics, Life and Faith," The Wittgenstein Reader, ed. Anthony Kenny (Oxford, Blackwell Press 1994).

There is your threat to worldly power:  to understand ethics (I might substitute "morality") as something of substance, something real, and also something transcendent, beyond the expression of language; something so real that if it could be truly expressed, it would explode language (for what else are books made of?).

There is, in the final analysis, no threat to worldly power from worldly power:  there is only a threat to those claiming to have the power at any given moment.  But power is fickle; it changes partners and changes hands at its own whim, and no one who claims to wield it ultimately has control of it.  "Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair."  The powerful fade, power lingers on, finds a new repository, shatters that vessel or outlives its sheath, and continues.  The only response to power is with the power of powerlessness.  Morality is not about power; it is about doing what is right; and doing right not no matter the consequences, but simply because it is right.  In the short term if it seems to fail, in the long term it will win; it will prevail.  Power will one day be exhausted; powerlessness cannot be.  "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth."

Are those the people worth believing in?  Aslan, according to Korb, thinks the worst thing that happened to Jesus of Nazareth is the story of his resurrection.  Why?  Because it robbed his message of power; because:

Jesus’ usefulness as a challenge to power was lost the moment Christians first believed he rose from the dead. For Aslan, that’s been the worst consequence of the most consequential life ever lived.

 But the challenge to power never outlives the power being challenged.  And what life could be more consequential than the life of a Mediterranean peasant whom we are still talking about 2000 years later?  Are we not doing so precisely because the first Christians believed he rose from the dead?

The rest of us should suffer such a consequence in our otherwise inconsequential lives.

Swan Song 2.0: The End of the Affair (Redux)

Politics is an addiction. I freely admit it.

"My name is Robert. I'm a political junkie."

Back in the day, before I made a daily practice of feeding my habit, instead of reacting to the latest news, I thought about things like this. Maybe not the most stirring meditation or the most insightful commentary, but certainly different enough from what usually gets posted in left blogistan to be of some interest. Certainly something more worthy of my time and (negligible) talents.

But politics is an addiction; and if there is no support group to take me through recovery, it's simply time to go cold turkey.

Politics is a dead end, for a spiritual seeker. Politics is about power, pure and simple. Politics is about selecting the lesser of two evils, the least offensive of two parties. Politics is not even about justice, the golden thread that runs through the Hebrew Scriptures and the New Testament. Politics is about control. My faith is about giving up control. My faith is rooted in the demand for justice. My faith is practically antithetical to politics.

Consider the present situation: the Senate passed the Military Commissions Act of 2006 with the votes of 12 Democrats. To use President Bush's favorite phrase, support for that bill is simply unacceptable. Torture is reprehensible. There is no excuse for voting for it. But 12 Democratic Senators did. What do I do to express my outrage, my disgust, my dissent? Support their GOP opponents? And that yields me what? So I compromise, yield on my principals, accept the lesser of two evils? And why? For power?

Yes, for power. Purely and simply, for power. There is no other reason, no other excuse. Because someone has to wield power, and I should always accept the lesser of two evils to see that is done. Except I don't.

This isn't a naive choice. This isn't a choice based on foolish expectations that somehow the "universal mind" will come nearer to fruition if I just keep voting for the least offensive party, if I keep challenging the current status quo. I'm perfectly happy to see the power-greedy monkeys of the GOP get knocked off their perch. But I'd be just as happy if those monkeys were Democrats, and I'm not so naive as to believe only the GOP is capable of such abuses of power. Certainly theirs tend to be more militaristic, but 12 Democratic Senators have proven they can be just as "tough," just as militaristic. And that leaves me with no party to support anymore.

I wish I could believe the status quo would change come November. I wish I could believe that in January, with the swearing in of a new Congress, that this nightmare would be swept away, that the Augean stables of Washington, D.C. would be cleansed. But all that I can realistically expect is the stable hands will be given new uniforms; and that simply isn't good enough. I wish I could believe that in 2008 a new Thomas Jefferson would be inaugurated, who would sweep away the cobwebs of the Military Commission Act of 2006, and Abu Ghraib, and Gitmo, and secret prisons, with the antiseptic of sunlight and habeas corpus and respect for law and constitutional governance: but I see no one of that stature in the Democratic party. Instead I see the "Holy Trinity" of Joe Biden, Hillary Clinton, and Barack Obama (already being crowned "king" by Joe Klein, the man who would be kingmaker, largely because Obama has written (or had written) yet another book) being declared the leaders of the Democratic party. And I see no change in the Democratic party, anymore than voters do. The Democrats are winning, not on any platform for change or destruction of the reprehensible and unacceptable status quo, but simply on party status: "We aren't the GOP!" is all that's really drawing voters to the Democratic side. And what challenge to the status quo is that?

Niebuhr's reference to those who seek power is applicable here:

In each case they identified all evil with the type of power from which they suffered and which they did not control; and they regarded particular sources of particular social evils as the final source of all evil in history.

He speaks to all of left blogistan, even to those who would wield power with what they are sure is the best interests of the powerless, in mind. The struggle for power can't help but break down into an "us v. them" zero-sum game, where the evil we most clearly identify is not our evil, but theirs. Except the evil "we" identify in "them" is always the weakness in ourselves, the powerlessness we are most keenly aware of, and therefore most sure is the greatest power our enemy has, and if we just controlled it, all would be well, or certainly much better. But that is precisely why Jesus said you see the splinter in your brother's eye, but can't see the log in your own. What you see is a reflection. It is your own weakness you wish to overcome, by laying claim to the reins of power.

But the paradox of Christianity, is the power of powerlessness. Power doesn't exist to serve you. Power is the ultimate master. It always and only serves its own ends, which are merely to exert power as fully as possible. Christians, especially, are called to be servants, servants of all. We cannot be servants to each other, however, if we are servants to power. We surely cannot serve two masters.

Niebuhr addresses this, too, though I would say he lacks the courge of his convictions to take the matter to the sticking point. For a former Detroit pastor who courageously took on labor issues, I sometimes think Neibuhr betrays the comfort of his later years as a professor in a seminary, and prefers the struggle with abstract concepts which, after all, can't really struggle back, or the debate over foreign policy issues which, after all, can never be one person's responsibility, especially a seminary professor's, to the personal quotidian struggles of a pastor, of individuals:

The liberal world has always oscillated between the hope of creating perfect men by eliminating the sources of social evil and the hope of so purifying human "reason" by educational techniques that all social institutions would gradually become the bearers of a universal human will, informed by a universal human mind.

Those words, too, could apply to left blogistan, both the atheists and the religious. Substitute "left blogistan" for "liberal world," and you have a very contemporary observation, indeed. If everyone would just think like us, then all would be well and all manner of thing would be well, and if we don't work toward that end, we are not working for justice! But it isn't, of course, nearly that simple. The struggle against injustice, as Dr. King understood, is not a political matter, not a matter of gaining the support of a majority through compromise and collaboration. As Dr. King outlined it to the pastors of Birmingham, Alabama: "In any nonviolent campaign there are four basic steps: collection of the facts to determine whether injustices exist; negotiation; self-purification; and direct action." And as he says:

We have gone through an these steps in Birmingham. There can be no gainsaying the fact that racial injustice engulfs this community. Birmingham is probably the most thoroughly segregated city in the United States. Its ugly record of brutality is widely known. Negroes have experienced grossly unjust treatment in the courts. There have been more unsolved bombings of Negro homes and churches in Birmingham than in any other city in the nation. These are the hard, brutal facts of the case. On the basis of these conditions, Negro leaders sought to negotiate with the city fathers. But the latter consistently refused to engage in good-faith negotiation.

Then, last September, came the opportunity to talk with leaders of Birmingham's economic community. In the course of the negotiations, certain promises were made by the merchants --- for example, to remove the stores humiliating racial signs. On the basis of these promises, the Reverend Fred Shuttlesworth and the leaders of the Alabama Christian Movement for Human Rights agreed to a moratorium on all demonstrations. As the weeks and months went by, we realized that we were the victims of a broken promise. A few signs, briefly removed, returned; the others remained.

As in so many past experiences, our hopes bad been blasted, and the shadow of deep disappointment settled upon us. We had no alternative except to prepare for direct action, whereby we would present our very bodies as a means of laying our case before the conscience of the local and the national community. Mindful of the difficulties involved, we decided to undertake a process of self-purification. We began a series of workshops on nonviolence, and we repeatedly asked ourselves : "Are you able to accept blows without retaliating?" "Are you able to endure the ordeal of jail?" We decided to schedule our direct-action program for the Easter season, realizing that except for Christmas, this is the main shopping period of the year. Knowing that a strong economic with with-drawal program would be the by-product of direct action, we felt that this would be the best time to bring pressure to bear on the merchants for the needed change.

It is the last part of that which is the most important to me: the process of self-purification. "Are you able to accept blows without retaliating? Are you able to endure the ordeal of jail?" Well, are we? When do we decide that is false civility? How much humility is too much humility? When does love come to an end?

These are not simple questions; but they are deeply and profoundly, Christian questions. That is not to say they are not Jewish questions as well, or Muslim questions, Buddhist questions, Hindu questions. I can only speak from my Christian perspective, but I don't mean to be exclusive about it; I mean only to be honest about my limitations.

And my limits with politics have been reached. I cannot effectively oppose the use of torture by Americans any longer because I cannot vote for an alternative to the legalization of torture. Which is not to overlook the legacy of the School of the Americas, which taught D'Aubisson and the rapist of Marianela Garda Vilas, the murderers of Maura Clarke, Ita Ford, Jean Donovan, and Dorothy Kazel. But where do I turn, now, to undo that legacy? Who, indeed, stands against it? Which politician stands for justice against injustice, for truth against lies, for life against death?

Which politician can, and remain a politician?

Martin Luther King never campaigned for a political candidate. He never saw his movement as one aligned with either political party. LBJ was right; the Civil Rights Act he signed gave the South to the GOP for the foreseeable future. So be it; LBJ did the right thing. But politicians since have learned the lesson. Obama, Clinton, Biden: what do they stand for, except the status quo? As I said elsewhere, to someone else:

Politicians will always use religion, or any other cultural institution, to effect power. Some effect power for good ends, like LBJ. Some for bad ends, like George W. Bush. Using religion to achieve a political end is no more remarkable than exploiting a national tragedy. If it is more common, it is simply because it is more available.

But religion in politics is the rub. Hoping Democrats will be kinder and gentler abusers of politics seems a faint hope indeed. Better they should leave it alone, in that case. Expecting them to use it well is equally bizarre, especially if they try to expand "religion" to include something other than Protestant Christianity (do you really see another John Kerry appealing to fellow Catholics by citing doctrine?). At that point it becomes pandering all over again. What does any American politician know of Islam, Buddhism, or even just Greek Orthodox or Russian Orthodox? And if they proclaimed their personal knowledge of another religion publicly, wouldn't they be a political freak? Joe Lieberman wears his Judaism on his sleeve when it serves his purpose, much as Bush goes to church to show off his piety (who started that in modern times anyway, Carter? Don't remember LBJ or Kennedy or even Nixon going to church while in office.) But he's never let any tenet of Judaism get in the way of his political aims. John Danforth is an Episcopal priest; but that didn't stop him from pushing Clarence Thomas onto the Supreme Court.

Which makes them no worse than the rest of us. But there's the rub: religion is supposed to make us better, else what's the point? Upon further consideration, is the relationship between religion and politics necessary? It was always assumed in American history, but that's largely because it went unchallenged, which was the point of my history lesson . Once the challenge took root in the public square, once someone took separation of church and state seriously, the political troubles started. Religion is part and parcel of American culture, but then so is the Jeffersonian separation of state and church. Not much reliance on God in the salient points of Jefferson's 1st Inaugural, but he says a whole lot I'd like to hear emphasized right now, and I wouldn't mind hearing the Democrats doing it.

Gustavo Gutierrez went to some lengths to deliberately disentangle his "liberation theology" from competing secular ideologies like Marxism and sociology, so as to keep his work grounded in doing God's will. I just have to say, I think he had a point.

But that's hardly news, is it?

That's a resolve I hope to cling to, now. A reliance on discerning God's will, not on discerning the subtle differences between political parties.

Another life, another place

Because I was looking up old posts about "powerlessness," I came across this sermon from 10 years back.  I'm not usually fond of my old work, and maybe I shouldn't look kindly on this child of my heart; but I do.

I think it preaches.  Or at least, it does to me.  And it's about that issue of powerlessness I talk about in a desultory fashion once in a blue moon.  It's about that, and it says pretty much what I'd want to say, even now.

The scriptures were: Isaiah 53:4-12; Hebrews 5:1-10; and Mark 10: 35-45.

"Children, how difficult it is to enter God’s domain! It’s easier for a camel to squeeze through a needle’s eye, than for a wealthy person to get into God’s domain!" No, I know, that’s last week’s Gospel reading. But it’s really where this gospel story starts: with the lesson about how difficult it is for the rich to get into heaven. The lesson leaves the disciples perplexed; but James and John, the sons of Zebedee, think they have it figured out, and if it’s easier for a poor man to get into the kingdom of heaven, they figure they’ve got it made, so they jump ahead of the others in order to get first dibs on the best place. When I was a kid in high school driving around with my friends we called it "riding shotgun," and the first person to yell "Shotgun!" was supposed to be designated by the driver as the lone passenger in the front seat. Those were the rules; that’s how it was done; that was justice; or at least fairness. If you called "shotgun" first, the driver had to honor your claim and let you in the front seat.

So here are James and John calling "shotgun," and the rest of the disciples get mad because that means they have to ride in the backseat. But it isn’t as simple as that, either. Jesus tells them they don’t know what they are asking, but you can see them look at each other and say: "Uh, yeah, we do!" And Jesus says, "Well, can you drink the cup I’ll drink from, or undergo the baptism I’ll undergo?" And before someone can warn them to be careful what they ask for, because they might get it, they say: "Yeah, sure, we can do that!" And Jesus says: "Okay, then you will. But where you end up is not up to me. Those places are already reserved." And before they can ask him what that means, the disciples are on them, mad that nobody even told ‘em they were going anywhere, and they didn’t get a chance to call shotgun, and no fair anyway, and what’s goin’ on, we’re still tryin’ to figure out that one about the rich guy and the camel. And Jesus, being Jesus, just doesn’t let up. But here’s the secret about it; here’s the main point, the single golden thread running through all the gospels, running through all the teachings of Jesus and Paul and all the holy scriptures, and running right through the last story from Mark into this one: it’s all about the power of powerlessness.

Think about it a moment: Jesus is God, and God can do anything, but Jesus can’t say who will sit at his right hand and at his left, the positions of greatest distinction. Why can’t he say? Who are those places reserved for, and who reserved them, if not Jesus? But the way he talks those reservations are out of his hands. Maybe he’s just being coy; maybe he just doesn’t want to tell them they’re too late, that "shotgun" has already been decided, and they didn’t call it soon enough. Maybe. But I don’t think so.

Because it’s about what he says next, and about what Isaiah says. That’s an odd text to our ears, the words from Isaiah. We’re used to that language in Lent. "O Sacred Head How Wounded." "Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows." Those are Lenten themes; not words for the middle of October, for the season of Pentecost. But they fit in perfectly here: they complete the sense of reversal Jesus has already begun.

That beautiful passage in Isaiah is all about reversal, about something done that undoes: "the chastisment he bore restored us to health and by his wounds we are healed." Ponder on that for a moment, for it is a great mystery. It is the wounds that heal us. This is one of the classic reversals of Isaiah, he of the springs in the desert and the straight highway in the wilderness, of the low places made level and the high places brought low. A little later in his book, he will invite us to buy food without money, purchase wine without price. His favorite image is the signs of life God brings out of lifeless places, is how God reverses and upends our expectations, how everything we think we know, is wrong. And this time he turns his vision on the suffering servant, the one who, like the life in the desert and the leveling of the wilderness, brings release by captivity, eternity by mortality, victory by being utterly defeated. Isaiah is our great prophet proclaiming the power of powerlessness, of the awesome reversal of all we think we know that is the true power and sign of the presence of God. And this time he makes it personal. This time it’s the one who is despised and of no account who is raised up by God, who presents the reversal of all we have expected.. Not the rich man; not the beautiful movie star; not the successful business leader. The one no one else wanted anything to do with, the one with no authority, no power whatsoever, the one who accepts it all in order to be a servant to all. Yes, that one; the one Jesus is talking about. The one who drank from the cup and suffered the baptism James and John have just agreed to. You can almost see them standing there, and if they could hear this, and make the connection, they’d start reconsidering what it was they said they would do. Too late, though; the choice is made.

But that isn’t a bad thing; because our hope is in that reversal. Our hope is not in the victory, but in the defeat; our hope is not in the one so powerful he will save us all, but in the one so powerless he is willing to die for us all. Our hope is not in overcoming, our hope is in being found worthy because of our willingness to place service above everything else we know, to make service the reason for everything we do. Our hope is in the reversal of what we expect. If our hope was only in our gain, we would reach a point where all we could expect was to hold tenaciously to what we had, to keep it "ours" for as long as we could, to protect it against all other claimants and cry "no fair!" to the driver when someone else claimed to right to ride shotgun. We have to restore our claim to priority over and over and over again, and it takes all our energy, and we can never be certain we’ll prevail again. That condition is permanent.

But also permanent is the condition of others; also permanent is that we can always be of service to others. And there is no competition there, no risk of loss, no concern that we will lose our place of privilege. There is no privilege in service, except that we get to model Christ, and we get to serve the Christ, and by service we become more like Christ. We, too, will drink the cup and undergo the baptism of our Lord and Savior. But that is because we will not be in charge of others, but in service to others. There is no privilege in service, except that in service, we do as God did. In service, we model the Creator of the Universe. And our energy is used in help, not holding on; in giving, not gain. It is the paradox of the powerless, that, letting go of power, we have all the power we will ever need.

This is the word of God the letter to the Hebrews is talking about; the word of God that is alive and active, that cuts more keenly than any two-edged sword, that separates soul and spirit, joint and marrow, that discriminates among the purposes and the thoughts of the heart. It is the bottom line, we say, that matters; it is the outcome, not the intent, sometimes not even the action. Because at the bottom, is where everything happens to everybody. At the bottom, among the servants, is where we find God. Because at the bottom, God serves everyone, and at the bottom, is where we serve and honor God. It is the reverse of what the world teaches, of those who supposedly rule over foreigners.

Our hope is in reversal. Our hope is in the fact that everything we know is wrong. Our hope is in the power of powerlessness. Our hope is not in power. God is all powerful because God is powerless. No, not powerless, but acts without power. God reverses everything we know. God tells us to race, not for the top, but for the bottom. The top is ephemeral, it is false; it is a place only in legend and song. The bottom is where we all are, and where we never rise from. When you are #1, the only way to go is down. Go down, then, because #1 is not the first, but the last; not the ruler, but the servant. Amen.

"Now I'm sad and tired."

I wrote this some time back, in high dudgeon. Now my dudgeon is not so high, and my fervor has cooled. Partly that's a result of being further away in time from the radio program that got me started. Partly it's the fact that the complaints that fired me, seem to have faded; or at least I'm less worried about them than I was before. Partly, it's Holy Week, and more important matters claim my attention.

But I'm still prone to feel this way, which is a good enough reason to go ahead and post it. Besides, at some point, it needs to be said.



So my local radio station re-ran this series from "This American Life" today. I could only get partway through Act 2 before I had to leave, but just re-living the bridge blockade debacle I sat there wondering: what has happened to our country?

As the show points out in the opening, contrary to what Bush and Chertoff and every other Federal official said, once Gov. Blanco declared a state of emergency in Louisiana, and Bush did the same, Bush and Chertoff had all the power they needed to go into New Orleans and do what needed to be done. And they still do.

And it still isn't getting done.

So we have New Orleans, and the Gulf Coast. Nigeria has it's own coastal problems. And what is the Anglican Communion worried about? Poverty? Exploitation? Economic inequalities? Hunger, starvation, homelessness? Any of the "least of these" Jesus told us where we would see, and be able to help, him?

No. We're frantic over whether or not any bishop, anywhere, is gay. Oh, or female, but that last one embarasses us; so let's just fear teh gay, as the kids say on these intertubes.

We had another tsunami this week. Are the victims of the last one okay, that we don't need to worry about them? Are there no refugee problems anywhere in the world? No victims of war, no homeless people on the streets of American cities, no poverty in the Rio Grande Valley? No suffering, no starving, no person on the planet who needs our compassion? What's that? There is? They are still there?

Then why in the name of the God we worship and obey, are we so concerned with who gets ordained a bishop?

I understand the dispute in the Anglican Communion is all about power. I understand Nigeria has set itself up as the "Lord Protector:"

The Primate of all Nigeria has said “Our argument is that, if homosexuals see themselves as deviants who have gone astray, the Christian spirit would plead for patience and prayers to make room for their repentance. When scripture says something is wrong and some people say that it is right, such people make God a liar. We argue that it is a blatant lie against Almighty God that homosexuality is their God-given urge and inclination. For us, it is better seen as an acquired aberration.”

I even understand that I am an insignificant blogger and an insignificant and very new member of the Anglican Communion, and that I should be quiet and let this matter be thrashed out by those who understand that polity of the Episcopal Church and who know the traditions of the Anglican Communion and who will fight for the property that is rightfully ours. I understand all of that.

What I don't understand is what any of this has to do with taking care of the least and lowest among us. What I don't understand is what any of this has to do with the race to the bottom that Jesus commanded us, as his followers, to pursue. How are we being least of all and servant of all when everyone on either side of this contentious issue, is determined to be ruler and decider of all?

"There is one thing that a bishop should say to another bishop," Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams, the Anglicans' spiritual leader, told the Anglican leaders and several hundred worshippers in a packed cathedral Sunday. "That I am a great sinner and that Christ is a great savior."

And where did that sentiment go? Down the Episcopal blogistan memory hole as rapidly as it was uttered. It was even more ignored than PB Schori's comments urging TEC to fast for Lent. How can we fast when we need strength for the righteous fight?! How can we fight if we are being humble?!

I know this will be ignored, as my past posts have been. Or it will be misinterpreted, misunderstood, mistaken. I can't even help that. Probably no one will notice, and my little pebble will not even make a "plop!" as it hits the roiling waters of bloggy contention. Blogs are so good at letting us get all stirred up, at drawing to us the righteous like us who alone understand the peril that is before us. But do we understand? Do blogs show us the true peril? Or are they just another symptom of the disease?

The fear on both sides of this struggle is that, if one side fails, the institution will be lost. If that is so, then I say: good riddance! Any institution that God is not with, especially one that claims to be the body of Christ, will not stand if God abandons it. Any institution that God is with, cannot be shaken. It is idolatry to say that God must be with us, and we must be with God, else all is lost. God is with us because God is just, not because we are. If God decides we need a new Exile, a new destruction so that we build on better foundations, so be it. Come, Lord Jesus! But I will not presume to speak for God, no more than I will presume to be protecting God, or God's word, or God's work, or God's way. God needs no protection from me. I cannot make God a liar. I don't have it in my power. Nor does anyone else have it in their power to make me a liar about God.

This is not a fight I will engage. This is not a fight anyone can win. This is not about Christianity, nor even the Body of Christ. This fight is about power. And everyone engaged in it is tarred with that brush. Even me. I am a great sinner. Christ is a great savior.

There isn't any question what is happening in New Orleans now, or why. A picture is worth a thousand words, but I can easily give you a thousand pictures. Pictures can't even scratch the surface of what is going on there, now, almost 2 years later. Where is the outrage of the religious community? Where are the cries for justice, the demands for mercy, the commitment to walk humbly with our God by taking care of the least among us in this, the richest country in the world? During the flood, Gretna closed the Ponchatrain Bridge out of New Orleans:

"If we had opened the bridge, our city would have looked like New Orleans does now: looted, burned and pillaged." Arthur Lawson, Chief of Police, Gretna Police Department.

That's the point where I had to stop listening to the radio show. But it left me wondering: if we can't teach the world reconciliation, if we can't teach the world not to be afraid of others, why are we here? What is church for? And do we teach them, by fighting ourselves?

Wherewith shall I come before the LORD, and bow myself before the high God? shall I come before him with burnt offerings, with calves of a year old?

7 Will the LORD be pleased with thousands of rams, or with ten thousands of rivers of oil? shall I give my firstborn for my transgression, the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?

8 He hath showed thee, O man, what is good; and what doth the LORD require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?

Why am I going on about this. In part because tt's the same old rub, over and over and over again. Here we are, ready to sacrifice rivers of oil and thousand of rams and even give up our firstborn for God's approval, for God to smile on us and say "You win!" and so we get to claim the prize and keep the church we love, the one "they" want to destroy. And does God settle on the winner, sated like Zeus with our offerings and our piety? No. God wants nothing from us, God simply wants something of us. God wants us to do justice, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with God. So what do we do with all these rams, these rivers of oil? We've been told to fast, but that proved too easy, or too difficult, and we rejected that, too. We wanted action! But again, not the kind that would really require us to do anything, not even to fast. We want something done to them! Those people we think we can control; those people we think we can grab by the throat, even as we think they are grabbing us! We don't like the lesson of the power of powerlessness. If I may be so bold as to quote myself:

I'm a stickler on this point: power only and ever and always serves the ends of power. If God is not about the power of powerlessness, then Paul and I are agreed that the crucifixion was pointless, and all we're really waiting for is for God to get around to making us all believers, whether we like it or not.

But if God is about the power of powerlessness, then even taking up power in God's name is contrary to God's purpose. And a basiliea tou theou where the first are always last, and the last first, is a place with no political power at all.

And still: what does the Lord require of us?

5Is it such a fast that I have chosen? a day for a man to afflict his soul? is it to bow down his head as a bulrush, and to spread sackcloth and ashes under him? wilt thou call this a fast, and an acceptable day to the LORD?

6Is not this the fast that I have chosen? to loose the bands of wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens, and to let the oppressed go free, and that ye break every yoke?

7Is it not to deal thy bread to the hungry, and that thou bring the poor that are cast out to thy house? when thou seest the naked, that thou cover him; and that thou hide not thyself from thine own flesh?

8Then shall thy light break forth as the morning, and thine health shall spring forth speedily: and thy righteousness shall go before thee; the glory of the LORD shall be thy reward.

9Then shalt thou call, and the LORD shall answer; thou shalt cry, and he shall say, Here I am. If thou take away from the midst of thee the yoke, the putting forth of the finger, and speaking vanity;

10And if thou draw out thy soul to the hungry, and satisfy the afflicted soul; then shall thy light rise in obscurity, and thy darkness be as the noon day:

11And the LORD shall guide thee continually, and satisfy thy soul in drought, and make fat thy bones: and thou shalt be like a watered garden, and like a spring of water, whose waters fail not.

12And they that shall be of thee shall build the old waste places: thou shalt raise up the foundations of many generations; and thou shalt be called, The repairer of the breach, The restorer of paths to dwell in.

That's where Lent started. How far along have we gotten?