Clarion: Journal of Spirituality and Justice

2x4: The Wages are from Sin, the Gift is from God - Steve Robinson

"The wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord." Romans 6:23

 

It's amazing how a "framework" can constrain how you understand a piece of text.

 

For example, 2x4 is either 8 or a piece of lumber depending on whether you are a mathematician or a carpenter.

 

The "juridical/accounting/transactional" framework always told me that "Jesus paid the debt to God for our sins".

 

The AHA! moment for me was that SIN pays the wage of death, not God. God doesn't kill us because we sin. Sin alienates us from God who is Life.

God offers a free gift, not "wages" and a transaction in which we earned something or owe Him something for what we "worked". Jesus accepted sin's "wage" even though He didn't earn it. God didn't kill Jesus (pay the wage of sin He exacts to His Son in our stead). God accepted the wages from sin on our behalf and nailed the W-2 to the cross (Colossians 2:14).

In all the Parables, the Master, Lord, King, Landowner forgave the debts of his crappy householders and subjects with a word. He NEVER extracted the due debt from an innocent third party. God absorbs death, the wages of sin, into Himself because God is life and not even death can prevail before God. As Solomon said, "Love is stronger than death..."

 

Wages, books to be balanced, or penalties to be paid to a God who pays Himself off via His Son to satisfy His need for a balanced ledger or justice served, or a benevolent King who just forgives and takes all the crap and debt and death we can deal out into Himself for our sake's just because He loves us are two different things.

 

I once held the former thing as "Gospel", and it made sense to me. Then I heard the latter thing. The longer I live the latter thing makes more and more sense to me.

 

As if we can make sense of the horror of the Cross.

 

As if we can make sense of human, much less, divine Love.

 

(On the Feast of the Cross, Sept. 14).

Painting by Nicholas Ge

 

 

The Gospel, Breonna Taylor & Vicarious Responsibility - Chris Green

Earlier today, in light of the breaking news, Fr Kenneth Tanner lamented the fact that our laws and law enforcers failed to bring about justice for Breonna Taylor and her family, a failure which he rightly identified as “an indictment of our society.” He concluded his brief post with these words, which I think strike to the heart of the matter: “We are all guilty. And our guilt remains until we insist this state of affairs is unacceptable.” Unsurprisingly, not everyone agreed with Fr Kenneth’s comments. Also, unsurprisingly, some responses to his post were astonishingly rude, even vile. But what actually captured my attention was a particular challenge to the very notion of “vicarious responsibility.”

Of course, we all know that many American Christians have a difficult time imagining—much less admitting—the possibility of collective guilt and mutual answerability before God. The question is, how can we recover the biblical and theological framework necessary for making sense of such realities?  What does the gospel teach us about “vicarious responsibility”? And what, if anything, does that mean for our response to Breonna Taylor’s tragic death and other such miscarriages of justice?

I’m convinced, first and foremost, that our understanding of “vicarious responsibility” must be rooted in what we believe about who Christ is and what he has accomplished in his mediation. As Miroslav Volf has said, Christ’s substitution is inclusive, not exclusive. And, as Fr John Behr explained in class today, this is what John’s Gospel means when it says that all things come to pass in Jesus (Jn 1: 30-4). Bonhoeffer, reflecting on Pilate’s presentation of Jesus (Jn 19:5), makes the point with characteristic sharpness and force:  

Ecco homo—behold God become human, the unfathomable mystery of the love of God for the world. Jesus is not a human being but the human being. What happens to him happens to human beings. It happens to all and therefore to us. The name of Jesus embraces in itself the whole of humanity and the whole of God... In Jesus Christ, the one who became human was crucified and is risen; humanity has become new. What happened to Christ has happened for all, for he was the human being. The new human being has been created.

This truth is at the very heart of the gospel: what happens to Christ happens to all. And the reverse is also true: he takes personally whatever happens to us. That is why what we do or fail to do to and for the least of these, we do or fail to do to and for him. This is the truth that knocks Paul to the ground on the road to Damascus.

The good news is that in assuming vicarious responsibility for others, we not only acknowledge what Christ has done for us and who he is to us, we also participate in him and his work. And we do this in order to free others to be themselves, loving them just as we have been loved. In other words, we do not act in their place but on their behalf. Thus, taking responsibility for others does not mean we take away their personal responsibility before God to others. Just the opposite, in fact: it means we recognize and accept our calling to help them fulfill their calling, supporting them as they learn how to rise up into the full flourishing of their freedom as persons made in the image of God revealed in the face of Jesus Christ. As St Paul teaches the Galatians, we can bear our own loads only if we help others bear their burdens (Gal. 6:2, 5). Or, as he instructs the Corinthians, “We are convinced that one has died for all; therefore all have died" (2 Cor. 5:14). Knowing this, we find ourselves borne along by his love, pressed by his Spirit, so that we cannot not give our lives for others in the same way he gave and gives his life for us. Again, in the apostle’s words, “Christ died for all, so that those who live might live no longer for themselves, but for him who died and was raised for them” (2 Cor. 5:15).

Given that what I have just said is true, then “vicarious responsibility” names the only way in which it is possible for us to do justice while loving mercy and walking humbly before our God. As John Zizioulas warns us, if and when we forget that in Christ we are answerable to and for everyone, then we inevitably fall into acting like “individuals” instead of living as “persons.” The prophets call Israel back, again and again, to the vicarious responsibilities imposed on them by the terms of the covenant. And it is this covenantal reciprocity, this intercessory and cooperative form of life, that the apostles call “love.” Pilate, the individual, washes his hands of responsibility for others. Jesus, the truly human person, the one in whom we find ourselves, washes the feet of those who betray him.

Breonna Taylor, 26, was killed in her home by Louisville police officers in the early morning hours of March 13, 2020. In the same city, almost exactly 62 years before, the middle-aged Thomas Merton had his life-altering epiphany:

In Louisville, at the corner of Fourth and Walnut, in the center of the shopping district, I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all those people, that they were mine and I theirs, that we could not be alien to one another even though we were total strangers. It was like waking from a dream of separateness, of spurious self-isolation in a special world, the world of renunciation and supposed holiness…

“They were mine and I theirs…” We all have to have this same awakening. We have to die to what Merton called “the heresy of individualism.” We have to come alive to our bound-together-ness, which was accomplished for us in Christ and realized in us as we are immersed in him and commune with him. To put it bluntly, the gospel insists we acknowledge that what happened to Breonna happened to Jesus. Her death is taken up in his; therefore, we cannot hope to share his life if we do not care about her death and care for all those affected by it—in the same way that he does. After all, the only love we have to give is the love we have received.

In his New Seeds of Contemplation, written only a few years after his experience in downtown Louisville, Merton concludes: “in order to find myself I must go out of myself, and in order to live I have to die.” Tonight, the going out required of us is an identification with Breonna in her death, an entry into the righteous grief and anger of those who loved her, a readiness to accept that we do in fact answer for what has happened to her and what will happen in the wake of this tragedy. As Fr Kenneth said, our guilt remains until we refuse to accept this state of affairs. And the good news is we do not have to accept it, because, in spite of everything, nothing is impossible for our God.  

 

Absolute plentitude: the definition of God’s love - Becky Parker

Absolute plentitude: the definition of God’s love

“Blessed are the gentle for they shall inherit the earth.” - Matthew 5:5

I have seen the word "gentle" in this text also translated as meek or humble. Generally, in our society gentleness, meekness, and humility are not valued traits and are often met with ridicule and even contempt. Manifesting these qualities will most likely get you labeled as weak. However, the truth is, we can only be truly and consistently gentle, meek, and humble when we are very strong. Strong in faith, hope, and love.

I once listened to a lecture on attachment and sibling rivalry. The speaker said the very nature of infinity is absolute plentitude. You cannot take away from or add to infinity. If a child believes that a parent’s love is infinite, there is nothing to fear if a sibling gets the love because he’s not losing anything. It is when a child experiences love as a finite thing there is alarm, frustration and fear. Because then the child is afraid that if someone else receives love, then they get less or there is not enough for them.

This is one of the best descriptions of the cause of the hate, violence, and pain in our world. And although the speaker did not necessarily intend this interpretation, it is conversely one of the best descriptions of God and His love I have ever heard. The I Am is absolute plentitude. We cannot take away from or add to His very nature, which is love. We can only choose to rest in it or not.

Sadly, the overwhelming majority of human beings throughout history have only experienced love as finite and we have all experienced love as conditional and uncertain at some point in life. Even by the most well-meaning of parents, caregivers, and friends. We cannot rest in this kind of love, so we must work for it and by all means, we must contend with others for our share.

True strength is to take a grand leap of faith and hope on our part. It is to say: “my experience of love, attention, and belonging has been mostly conditional with other people. I know that I have felt the pain of belonging and acceptance revoked when I don’t meet others’ needs or expectations. But I choose to hope of a love that is steadfast and sure. A love that does not change and is never exhausted. I will rest in this love and even if there are things I am denied, I will rest securely because there will be enough for me.”

A trust in this never-ending love God provides is what leads to true gentleness because you no longer have to fight for your place. You can be truly meek because you no longer must retaliate or seek vengeance when you can trust that you will be cared for. You can be truly humble and know that it is okay if someone else is celebrated and admired because you are also the apple of His eye.

There were 12 baskets of food left after Jesus fed over 5,000 people. Absolute plentitude at work and assuring us of His care and provision. If we can choose to accept this love and rest in it, this can be for us an experience that is safe, inviting, and more fulfilling than anything we have known. It can free us to be gentle, meek, and humble, and to let go of fear, anxiety, and a need for retribution.

However, we can also continue working and striving for the fleeting glimpses of love we receive from others. It is understandable because we rightly desire the feeling of joy and contentment that comes when we are accepted and loved. We must understand though that if love or belonging demands us to strive and contend, it is not the love of Abba.

I pray we all may take the step, walk out in faith, and choose to hope for this freeing love. Only when we feel unconditionally loved, valued, and cared for will we truly be able to love, value, and care for our families, neighbors, and enemies. We love because He first loved us. (1 John 4:19)

Limitless Love: A Reading of the Parable of the Unforgiving Servant - Homily by Fr. Martin Little

Text - Matthew 18:21-35

Forgiveness

²¹ Then Peter came and said to him, ‘Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?’ ²² Jesus said to him, ‘Not seven times, but, I tell you, seventy-seven times.

The Parable of the Unforgiving Servant

²³ ‘For this reason the kingdom of heaven may be compared to a king who wished to settle accounts with his slaves. ²⁴ When he began the reckoning, one who owed him ten thousand talents was brought to him; ²⁵ and, as he could not pay, his lord ordered him to be sold, together with his wife and children and all his possessions, and payment to be made. ²⁶ So the slave fell on his knees before him, saying, “Have patience with me, and I will pay you everything.” ²⁷ And out of pity for him, the lord of that slave released him and forgave him the debt. ²⁸ But that same slave, as he went out, came upon one of his fellow-slaves who owed him a hundred denarii; and seizing him by the throat, he said, “Pay what you owe.” ²⁹ Then his fellow-slave fell down and pleaded with him, “Have patience with me, and I will pay you.” ³⁰ But he refused; then he went and threw him into prison until he should pay the debt. ³¹ When his fellow-slaves saw what had happened, they were greatly distressed, and they went and reported to their lord all that had taken place. ³² Then his lord summoned him and said to him, “You wicked slave! I forgave you all that debt because you pleaded with me. ³³ Should you not have had mercy on your fellow-slave, as I had mercy on you?” ³⁴ And in anger his lord handed him over to be tortured until he should pay his entire debt. ³⁵ So my heavenly Father will also do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother or sister from your heart.’

Of all the things demanded of us in this life, perhaps the toughest ask is that we forgive.  When we have been wronged by someone, it really, really hurts - perhaps especially if it’s someone close to us.  If left to fester, a state of ‘unforgiveness’ can destroy relationships, communities, and even people.  And that’s why forgiveness is such a pillar of the Christian faith - because people, relationships, and communities really matter to God.

We’d probably all like to get out of having to forgive if we could possibly do so.  And so at the opening to today’s gospel reading, St Peter wants to know, is there kind of statute of limitations on forgiveness?  He wants to know if there’s a ‘reasonable’ number of times that he must forgive.  He tentatively suggests… perhaps 7 times?  That seems pretty generous!

But Jesus says, ‘no, you’ve got it all wrong!’ You must forgive seventy-seven times - or it could also mean seventy times seven.  Now, a multiple of seven, in Jewish symbolism, stands for a sort of ‘perfectly enormous number.’  So Jesus is saying there’s no use counting:  we must forgive an infinite number of times.  It’s not just generous, but constant forgiveness, a grace so ingrained as to become incalculable.  

In relationships, you can’t really quantify forgiveness.  Imagine how odd it would be if we portioned it out in limited chunks. “I’ll forgive you on the third Thursday of every month, unless it’s a five-week month, in which case the previous weeks’ forgiveness will roll over…” It’s just absurd!  Love - of whatever kind - is like a river, always about to burst its banks. So, we are not just to forgive when we feel like it, or when it’s most obviously required.  But we are to go on, and on, and on, forgiving in countless little ways.

Forgiveness, in other words, catapults us into limitless realms.  It stretches us.  To offer it is to say to the one who has wronged us:  I know you can’t make this right, I know you can’t repay me, I know you can’t undo the hurt and pain you’ve caused.  But I will begin to heal that wound myself by offering you forgiveness.  I will release you from your wrong, and in so doing release myself from bitterness and resentment.  It’s an enormously powerful thing, and yet it’s almost never talked about in our public life.  When was the last time you heard a politician speak about forgiveness?  When was the last time you heard someone ask for it?  It’s rare.

The Pastor: My Gift to Little Bradley (vulnerability triggers) - Brad Jersak

I was seven-years-old and in love. To my shame, I've forgotten her name, but my second-grade teacher left a deep impression on me. Nothing sexual at that point, but certainly a longing for her affection. She was young and beautiful and a child of the sixties, complete with rock star boyfriend, brightly patterned mini-skirts and all things "Age of Aquarius." She "punished" disruptive male students by making them sit on her knee but somehow my strategies to that end ever only landed me in the corner. 

I chose to channel my unrequited love into my first work of fiction. My beloved handed out two sheets of fullscap along with a sticker. The assignment was to write a short story on the subject of the sticker--mine was a tiger. I dove deeply into the process, my first effort at creative story-telling and a true labour of love. I remember the room and the desk where I wrote the tale of "Tiger the tiger" and I recall my parents peaking through the doorway, proudly witnessing the artist at work.

I remember the day I strode to Voyageur Elementary School to deliver my handiwork. I remember how cold that Winnipeg winter morning was. I remember my excitement and how proud I felt of the finished product. So proud, in fact, that before entering the school, I attempted a preliminary act of daring. I would tight rope walk along the top rail of the iron boot-scraper. I recall mounting, catching my balance, extending my arms and stepping forward. Alas, the ice! I slipped badly, stradling the bar and landing full-force on my young testicles! Oh, the excruciating pain! The traumatic embarrassment! The waves of nausea!

I gathered the remaining crumbs of my dignity, my shattered pride and my scattered notebooks. Gratefully, few seemed to have noticed the bruised fruit of my arrogance. I limped feebly into the school and down the hall to Ms.____'s homeroom. I reached into my parka pocket to retrieve my Tiger story--and found it was empty. Panicked, I returned to the scene of my accident and scoured the snow for the lost parchment. Nada. Gonzo. And an emotional hole opened in the pit of my stomach. All was lost. 

I had neither the time, energy or heart for a rewrite. My parents and teacher conferred, confirming completion and forgiving the missing assignment. But that didn't heal the wound. I made a vow to myself that day--my promise to Little Bradley. One day, I will complete the work. It won't be about the Tiger and it won't be for my teacher. It will be a gift to that broken-hearted child with the bruised nuts.

I am now 56-years-old. After nearly five decades, through the guidance and generosity of my dear friend and co-author, Paul Young, I have kept my promise. I've finally delivered my first work of fictional truth-telling, miscarried on the icy iron rail in February 1972. The Pastor: A Crisis is my gift to Little Bradley. Even the novel's dedication ("For Jacki") is to one of Little Bradley's very best friends.

Paul and I pray that by reading The Pastor: A Crisis, others like me would experience the healing of bruised and wounded child parts that we recount in its pages. "Trust the ripples," Paul says. I do. I really do.                 

Imbach's Wager - Brad Jersak with Stephen Imbach

PASCAL’S WAGER

Pascal was a genius mathematician and a brilliant philosopher/theologian. He is known in popular apologetics for what we call “Pascal’s Wager.” For a very precise discussion, I would refer readers to this article in the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. A simplistic summary of the wager might say:   

It is in our best interest to believe in God because if God does exist, the benefits are infinite—and even if God does not exist, our mistaken belief does no harm. But if any possibility exists that not believing leads to eternal punishment, the risk of unbelief far outweighs any of its advantages. I.e. Pascal’s Wager is that your best bet (most rational and most pragmatic) is on faith God, even if we cannot prove his existence.

Since the time of Pascal conceived of his wager in his classic tome, Pensées, numerous counter-arguments have developed. While I could present my own critical analysis, that’s not my point. I only mention it to present an alternative wager that goes “all in” on faith in the goodness of God and represents the real-life leap of my spiritual director, Stephen Imbach.

IMBACH’S WAGER   

Stephen Imbach was raised by God-fearing parents in a fundamentalist Christian environment where he internalized a shame-based conservative gospel. He eventually bottomed out in the presence of his spiritual director, who saw the torment Stephen endured by clinging to that old system of fear, condemnation and moralism. The spiritual director suggested a risky proposition: denounce God as you have come to conceive God.

Denounce is a strong word. It means to formally declare that we are abandoning something—in this case, every conception Steve ever assumed or adopted concerning the “faith of his fathers.” Stephen tells me that after pondering this challenge, he embarked on what I’m calling “Imbach’s Wager.” He said to God,

I am letting go of everything I have ever learned about God. God, if you want, you now have a chance to work and you can come to me however you want to.

That was it. He was not calculating the odds of reward or punishment based in rationalist or pragmatic faith. He had already found transactional, performance-based religiosity bankrupt. There was nothing left to lose. He would simply pin all his hopes on the possibility that God is good.

That’s Imbach’s Wager: with nothing left to lose, what if we let go and found out that God is good—good enough to come find us.     

GENUINE PEACE

I asked Stephen how God came to him. It isn’t the same for everyone. Even though the Christian community might have judged him as a backslider and equated restoration with returning to the fold, God had his own path for Stephen. How did God come to him? In Stephen’s words,

A genuine peace came over me. Peace that everything is going to be okay. That God was saying, “I am not letting you go” and peace because, “Finally, you are being honest with me.”

When you let God come to you, it will be in a way that is most significant to you. I needed God to come in peace because my life is generally inner turmoil.

The peace that came I could not find for myself. It was peace with my own sense of self and peace that I’m really okay with and before God. And so eventually, I let him find me.  

I wonder: for those who have undergone some measure of deconstruction, rather than clinging by a final fingernail to a faith that requires clinging to, what if we took the huge risk of letting go (so different than walking away) and said, “I will not manufacture pseudo-belief for even one more step. But I will consent to watching for and welcoming Divine Love’s approach, wherever and however She chooses." I wonder. No, I might even bet on that.