"Postcards from Babylon: the Church in American Exile" Documentary review by Brad Jersak
“Come home. You’re better than this.”
—Daniel Dietrich, Hymn for the 81%
You had me at Brian Zahnd.
When the first seven days of 2021 had already trumped (sic) the insanity of 2020, and Christian nationalism had erupted in all manner of ‘prophetic’ blasphemies, I was neither surprised nor confused. That’s a lie. But I wasn’t bereft. That’s because I had already read the clear-minded social commentary of an actual national prophet—my friend and online pastor, Brian Zahnd. But what I pined for was that his sanity would be amplified for those whose heads are spinning. Cue the Postcards documentary.
A word about where I’m coming from. While I’m primarily known as a theologian, my Ph.D. was in political theology, exploring the intersection of political philosophy and our theology of the Cross. Politically, I’m a Canadian “High Tory” conservative who regards the entire American experiment (from far left to far right) as a violent exultation in freedom as self-will. That’s problematic for me as a Christian resident in a vassal state under the direct shadow of history’s most powerful empire.
But I don’t hate America any more than Jesus hated Rome. Indeed, most of my best friends are Americans and I find their enthusiastic hospitality and authenticity incredibly beautiful. It’s the ‘empire’ part that’s troubling—but particularly when faith is seduced by the powers “in the name of Jesus.” And that’s where Postcards is crucial. “Americanism,” says Zahnd, “is a rival religion to authentic Christian faith.” It’s an unholy harmonization of the American dream and some patriotic, nationalistic and militaristic aberration of the gospel.
What has been happening since the outcome of the November presidential election has been historic: continuous acts of sedition aimed at overturning the results of an American election by the current president of the United States.
Our nation’s first president, George Washington, decided not to become a new king, but voluntarily turned his office over to a new president. John Adams then turned his office over to Thomas Jefferson after he lost an election, setting a precedent that became a bulwark of American democracy. After becoming the most “unprecedented” president in American history, Donald Trump is now trying to destroy that fundamental practice by using the power of the presidency to deny the results of an election he lost. That sedition must not be met with silence — from political leaders or from faith leaders.
There is obviously a very dangerous political lens to these actions: The future of democracy in America is at stake. But I would argue there is also a theological lens — that the growing power of a distinctive American heresy is also at play.
In the face of the president’s open efforts to erase the results of the election and defy the Constitution, we have seen cooperation and collaboration by what is now his Republican Party unlike anything we have seen in American history. Even after every accusation of election fraud has been proven false or struck down by courts (including by judges Trump appointed) and multiple recounts in several states, Trump and his media machines have continued to spread disinformation across his base and around the country.
The story of the Canaanite woman in Matthew 15:21-28 is an unusual miracle story.1 There is an apparent harshness and rudeness to Jesus’ words which creates an uncomfortable tension for many readers today.2 Some going as far as believing “Jesus’ behaviour typifies an attitude of exclusion.”3 Perhaps for the original Matthean audience of Jewish Christ-followers, the words of Jesus were not interpreted as being quite so harsh or demeaning. Some scholars have tried to soften the rhetoric by interpreting the denigrating reference to Canaanites being “dogs” as a “homely metaphor” with the phrase meaning “little dogs” or “house pets.”4 Others have suggested that the Canaanite woman exposed and corrected Jesus’ prejudice against Gentiles.5 I do not consider any of these to be a fully satisfying interpretation of this text. Given Jesus’ practice of treating the marginalized—including Gentiles and women—with respect, compassion and dignity,6 I am convinced there must be a redemptive reading. Therefore, I propose a reading of this pericope whereby Jesus is verbalizing the prejudices of the disciples, not his own thoughts, to expose and rebuke their thinking. The woman was not insulted because Jesus’ words were spoken tongue-in-cheek.
Reading the text in this way suggests the main point Jesus was conveying to the disciples was that the kingdom of heaven was not restricted to the Jewish people but would include even their enemies.7 With its explicit inclusion of the terms Canaanite and House of Israel, it is possible that this pericope proposes a redemptive re-interpretation of the Canaanite conquest narrative in the Old Testament. Matthew already suggests in 4:24-25 that Jesus’ ministry was not restricted to Jewish regions and “great crowds” followed him from the Decapolis and beyond the Jordan. Mark 3:8 also records that “great numbers” came to Jesus from the Gentile areas “beyond the Jordan, and the region around Tyre and Sidon.” Jesus demonstrated explicitly in Matthew 8:5-13 that the kingdom of heaven was not restricted to Jews. Here, the author of Matthew records the healing of the Gentile centurion’s servant and Jesus saying, “I tell you, many will come from east and west and will eat with Abraham and Isaac and Jacob in the kingdom of heaven, while the heirs of the kingdom will be thrown into the outer darkness…” (Mt 8:11-12). There is a clear literary parallel between Matthew 8:11 and 15:26-27, with the image of Gentiles eating at God’s table used in both.
Dorothy A. Lee, “The Faith of the Canaanite Woman (Mt. 15.21-28): Narrative, Theology, Ministry” Journal of Anglican Studies 13 (May 2015), 12.
J. Martin C. Scott, “Matthew 15:21-28: A Test-Case for Jesus’ Manners” JSNT 63 (Sept 1996), 22.
Melanie S. Baffes, “What Do We Do With This Jesus? A Reading of Matthew 15:21-28 through the Lens of Psychoanalytic Theory” Journal of Pastoral Psychology (2014) 63:257.
Robert H. Gundry, Matthew: A Commentary on his Literary and Theological Art (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1982), 314-315.
Judith M. Gundry-Volf and Miroslav Volf, A Spacious Heart: Essays on Identity and Belonging (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press, 1997), 23-25.
See for example Matthew 8:5-13; Matthew 9:10-13, 20-22; Matthew 14:34-36.
The writer of Matthew chooses to identify the woman as Canaanite, a member of the historic enemy of the Jewish nation, instead of Syrophoenician as the writer of Mark does (Mark 7:26).
Within the biblical Davidic narrative is an account that is not only out of context chronologically, but an account that seems out of context with the message of a Hebrew God who is “slow to anger and abounding in mercy” (Exod 34:6). The text of 2 Samuel 21:1-14 is, at first glance, the story of the human sacrifice of seven men to appease God’s wrath and end a famine. Such an archaic bloodthirsty deity does not seem to be the same God revealed in Jesus Christ.
This essay will attempt to examine this first testament scripture with a Christocentric lens, concluding with reflections on how Christ is revealed figuratively and prophetically in this narrative. God-the-Father and God-the-Son are not to be found in the violence of this passage but are seen counteracting the violence that is present by continually encouraging interactions that are both righteous and just. With that understanding, this historical narrative then elucidates the need for violence and retribution in the crucifixion event as a human demand and not a divine one.
Background
This Davidic story is part of an appendix at the end of 2 Samuel which includes four stories and two poems, interrupting the chronological narrative between 2 Samuel 20, and the first 2 chapters of Kings, which conclude the story of David. It is a hard story to place chronologically with the details provided, but it is assumed David’s interactions with the Gibeonites likely took place near the beginning of David’s kingship, probably between 2 Samuel 8-9 (Tony W. Cartledge, 1 & 2 Samuel, 635).
Bible readers first meet the Gibeonites in Joshua 9 where the Gibeonites are concerned the advancing Hebrew army will annihilate them. Although they have a history in the land, they deceptively dress up as travelers and ask for Israelite protection. Joshua, motivated by compassion, grants this protection with a covenant. 2 Samuel 21 is the first time the reader learns of Saul’s unjust attack on the Gibeonites. To summarize, a foreign tribe (Gibeonites), brought under the protection of Israel, through deceit, are wronged by one king (Saul). They make a claim for retribution through the next king (David) and are granted it.
Joy and woe are woven fine A clothing for the soul divine… And when this we rightly know Through the world we safely go.
—William Blake, “Auguries of Innocence”
The year 2020 signals both the sixtieth year since Boris Pasternak died and the one hundred thirtieth year since he was born (1890-1960). There is much to the literary and political life in the midst of Stalinist Russia that Pasternak endured and wrote about, but this two-part article will focus on Pasternak himself, his epic novel, Doctor Zhivago, and Thomas Merton.
In the 1980s I was on staff with Amnesty International and for a time was chairperson of Group 1 Amnesty International in Canada. When Amnesty International began in 1961, the organization had adopted a variety of Prisoners of Conscience (POC) and one of the women highlighted in Persecution 1961 was Olga Ivinskaya (1912-1995). Ivinskaya has been seen by many as the Larissa (Lara) character in Doctor Zhivago, just as Ivinskaya’s daughter, Irina, can be seen as Larissa’s daughter, Katya. The fact that Olga Ivinskaya played a significant role in getting Doctor Zhivago published in English in 1958 meant she was suspect by the Russian State and the KGB. When Pasternak died in 1960, Ivinskaya was arrested and given an eight-year prison sentence and her daughter a shorter sentence. Irina was released from prison in 1962 and Olga in 1964. It was not until 1988 that Gorbachev rehabilitated Ivinskaya’s reputation.
The ongoing relationship between the novel Doctor Zhivago and reality has been told from various angles, including Olga Ivinskaya’s own book, A Captive of Time: My Years with Pasternak (1978), and in a more updated version, Lara: The Untold Love Story and the Inspiration for Doctor Zhivago by Anna Pasternak (2017). Moscow has Ears Everywhere: New Investigations on Pasternak and Ivinskaya by Paolo Mancosu (2019) is another treatment of the subject. There are decided points of convergence and overlap between Doctor Zhivago and Pasternak’s layered life. But to the novel I now turn.
My God, my God why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me, so far from the words of my groaning?
My God, I cry out by day, but you do not answer, by night but I find no rest.
In you our ancestors put our trust, they trusted you and were saved, in you they trusted and were not disappointed.
But I am a worm and not a human being, I am scorned by everyone, despised by the people.
All who see me mock me, they hurl insults, shaking their heads, "He trusts in the Lord," they say.
"Let the Lord rescue him, let him deliver him since he delights in him."
Yet you brought me out of the womb, you made me feel secure on my mother's breast. From birth I was cast on you, from my mother's womb, you have been my God.
Do not be far from me, and trouble is near and there is no one to help.
I am poured out like water and all my bones are out of joint. My heart has turned to wax, it has melted within me, a pack of villains encircles me,
they pierce my hands and my feet. All my bones are on display;
people stare and gloat over me. They divide my clothes among them and cast lots for my garment.
But you, Lord, do not be far from me. You are my strength; come quickly to help.
Deliver me from the sword, my precious life from the power of the dogs.
Rescue me from the mouth of lions; save me from the horns of the wild oxen.
I will declare your name to my people; in the assembly I will praise you.
Polly & Georgia Lee
In the early 1990s, when our boys were in grade school and we were living south of San Francisco, a 12-year-old girl named Polly went missing from her home an hour or so north of the city, in a little town called Petaluma. Because Petaluma was also Winona Ryder’s hometown, she helped galvanize the search effort for Polly which garnered nation-wide attention. Polly’s face was seen by millions, including Robert and I, who were caught up in her story—and who mourned her death weeks later.
About 4 years passed and again on the outskirts of Petaluma another 12-year-old girl went missing. This time, however, no one noticed. Like Polly, Georgia Lee was beautiful, intelligent, and loved by her friends. But that's where the similarities ended. Unlike Polly, Georgia was poor. And Black. And without a father. She was a surrogate parent both to her little sister and her unstable mother – that is, until a male predator moved into the house, and Georgia began leaving it out of self-preservation.
On the day she didn’t come home at all, no one reported her missing.
Two weeks later, a neighbor saw a little blurb in the paper; an unidentified body had been found along the highway. It occurred to her that she hadn’t seen Georgia for a while, so the neighbor shared her fears with the police. Tragically, her fears were soon realized.
At Georgia Lee’s memorial service, Tom Waits and his wife sat in the back row. They were struck by the equal horror and sorrow—and the profoundly unequal attention and concern—that surrounded the lives and deaths and grief of these two young girls. So, they wrote the lament we just heard on Georgia’s behalf, crying out to God, and to us, from hearts tuned toward justice; justice, which, in Hebrew, is the word most often paralleled, even synonymous, with shalom, or peace.
During advent, peace is one of the four pillars – and candles - set ablaze in the light of Jesus. Here, in this shelter, we are also given safe space to lament, to cry out to, and with God, for ourselves and our wounded world. Because the feet of those who stand and shout God’s good news of peace are only lovely when they also stand against injustice; with the God who has come to us in the flesh, embodying our lament and our final peace in his own life.