Liminal Lent

Tue, 16 Mar 2010 00:00:00 GMT

More often than I'd care to admit, I find that I am in a hurry. Now, it's not the typical kind of hurrying—rushing to get into the ten items or less lane at the grocery story, speeding through traffic, or running around juggling four or five tasks at a time. It's more an inability to be present to my life as it is right now. So often I find that no matter the circumstances, I'm hurrying through them, wondering or worrying what is next.

This pattern of hurrying through life to the "next event" seems fairly typical and engrained from a young age. When I was a child, I couldn't wait to be a teenager. When I was a teenager, I couldn't wait to be in college. When I was in college, I couldn't wait to be a graduate student. When I was a graduate student, I couldn't wait to be a professional. I look back on those hurried days now and lament that I rushed through them so quickly.

Of course, our efficiency-driven society doesn't help our propensity towards hurrying through life. We live in an "instant" society, and our increasingly rapid technological developments only add to our impatience when things are not achieved instantaneously. While technology has greatly improved many aspects of our lives and I certainly wouldn't want to go backwards, I recognize that my own propensity to hurry, coupled with a society that moves at ever-quickening speeds, can be very detrimental for the spiritual life. How often I find myself disappointed with God when my prayers are not answered instantly; how angry I become when the smallest glitch slows my achievement of personal goals; how frustrated and impatient I become with others when their own "improvement" doesn't move at my break-neck speed.

The lives depicted in the Bible couldn't be more different from our hurried lives. More importantly, and perhaps to our great frustration, the God revealed in the biblical stories is rarely in a hurry. Abraham and Sarah, for example, received the promise of an heir twenty-five years before they actually laid eyes on Isaac. Joseph had a dream as a seventeen year old young man that his brothers would one day bow down to him. Yet it was countless years and many difficulties later that his brothers would come and kneel before him, asking for food. Moses was eighty years old—long past his prime of life—when God appeared to him in the burning bush and called him to deliver the children of Israel. David was anointed king by Samuel as a young boy tending his father's flocks, long before he finally ascended to the throne. And Jesus spent thirty years in relative obscurity, not involved in public ministry, and only three years announcing the kingdom and God's rule in his life and ministry.

From our perspective, it is difficult to understand why God wasn't more in a hurry rushing to accomplish the plans and purposes, not only in these individuals' lives, but also in the plan of redemption. The Messiah was prophesied hundreds of years before he actually arrived on the scene. We cannot help but ask why God seems to move so slowly?

In Peter's second letter, what is considered his last will and testament, he discusses the slowness of God in relation to the second coming of Christ. Many arose even in Peter's time asking why God was so slow when it came to delivering on his promise of an eternal kingdom. They began to mock God assuming that "as it was in the beginning is now and ever shall be." Not so, Peter argues, for the slowness of God is in fact our salvation. "The Lord is not slow about his promise, as some count slowness, but is patient toward you, not wishing for any to perish but for all to come to repentance... Therefore, beloved, since you look for these things, be diligent to be found by him in peace, spotless and blameless, and regard the patience of our Lord to be salvation" (2 Peter 3:9, 14-15).

The long, slow, journey through the forty days prior to Easter morning can be arduous for those of us who find ourselves in a hurry, racing towards what's next. These forty days can serve to remind us of God's great forbearance and patience with us, even as they hearken to us to enter the wild spaces of wilderness waiting with Jesus. These days intentionally slow us and create space—what theologians call liminal space—making room for those of us who rush to wait and rest in the "in-between" and the "not yet" for God to act. Waiting for God in this liminal space gives us more opportunity to be patient, "looking" as Peter says, at the "patience of our Lord to be salvation."

Margaret Manning is a member of the speaking and writing team at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Seattle, Washington.

The Death of God

Mon, 15 Mar 2010 00:00:00 GMT

“God is dead,” declares Nietzsche’s madman in his oft-quoted passage from The Gay Science. Though not the first to make the declaration, Nietzsche’s philosophical candor and desperate rhetoric unquestionably attribute to its familiarity. In graphic brushstrokes, the parable describes a crime scene:

“The madman jumped into their midst and pierced them with his eyes. ‘Whither is God,’ he cried; ‘I will tell you. We have killed him—you and I! All of us are his murderers...Do we not feel the breath of empty space? Has it not become colder?...Do we smell nothing as yet of the divine decomposition? Gods, too, decompose. God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him.”(1)

Nietzsche’s atheism, unlike recent atheistic mantras, was not simply rhetoric and angry words. He recognized that the death of God, even if only the death of an idol, introduced a significant crisis. He understood the critical role of the Christian story to the very underpinnings of European philosophy, history, and culture, and so understood that God’s death meant that a total—and painful—transformation of reality must occur. If God has died, if God is dead in the sense that he is no longer of use to us, then ours is a world in peril, he reasoned, for everything must change. Our typical means of thought and life no longer make sense; the very structures for evaluating everything have become unhinged. For Nietzsche, a world that considers itself free from God is a world that must suffer the disruptive effects of that iconoclasm.

Herein, Nietzsche’s atheistic tale tells a story beneficial no matter the creed or conviction of those who hear it. Gods, too, decompose. Within Nietzsche’s bold atheism is the intellectual integrity that refused to make it sound easy to live with a dead God—a conclusion the self-deemed new atheists are determined to undermine. Moreover, his dogged exposure of idolatrous conceptions of God wherever they exist and honest articulation of the crises that comes in the crashing of such idols is universal in its bearing. Whether atheist or theist, Muslim or Christian, the death of the God we thought we knew is disruptive, excruciating, tragic—and quite often, as Nietzsche attests, necessary.

Yet for Nietzsche and the new atheists, the shattering of religious imagery and concepts is simply deconstruction for the sake of deconstruction. Their iconoclasm ultimately seeks to reveal towers of belief as houses of cards best left in piles at our feet. On the contrary, for the theist iconoclasm remains the breaking of false and idolatrous conceptions of God, humanity, and the cosmos. But added to this is the exposing of counterfeit motivations for faith, when fear or self-interest lead a person deeper into religion as opposed to love or truth, or when the source of all knowledge becomes something finite rather than the eternal God. While this destruction certainly remains the painful event Nietzsche foretold, God’s death turns out to be one more sign of God’s presence. As C.S. Lewis observed through his own pain at the death of the God he knew:

“My idea of God is not a divine idea. It has to be shattered time after time. He shatters it himself. He is the great iconoclast. Could we not almost say that this shattering is one of the marks of his presence? The incarnation is the supreme example; it leaves all previous ideas of the Messiah in ruins. And most are ‘offended’ by the iconoclasm; and blessed are those who are not.”(2)

For Lewis, it was the death of his wife that brought about the decomposition of his God. For others, it is the prevalence of suffering or the haunt of God’s silence that begets the troubling sense that our God is dying. At some profound level, the season of Lent takes us to God’s death as well, perhaps for some in more ways than one. Like the Incarnation, the crucifixion leaves most of our ideas in ruins at the foot of the cross. The journey to death and Golgotha is an offensive journey to take with God. But blessed are those who take it. Blessed are those in pain over the death of their Gods. Blessed are those who mourn at the tombs and take in the sorrow of the crime scenes. For theirs is somehow the kingdom of heaven, a kingdom somehow able to hold Golgotha, a kingdom able to hold death itself.

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

(1) Friedrich Nietzsche, The Gay Science (New York: Vintage, 1974), 181-182.
(2) C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed (New York: HarperCollins, 1996), 66.

The Rule

Fri, 12 Mar 2010 00:00:00 GMT

Some headlines are intended to startle as much as they inform. This morning I read several: "Study Reveals Religion Does Not Lead to Healthier Society," "Prayer Does Not Heal the Sick, Study Finds," and "North Korea's Christians Face Execution."(1) While the first two headlines piqued my interest, the actual claims themselves may have held the intention of shock but were met merely with intrigue. Whatever a scientific study can say about prayer, it usually says more about the formula we are trying to measure and very little about the God before whom the prayerful stand. Likewise, there are many things that can be said about healthy societies and the impact of religion, but it was Jesus who perhaps said it best: "It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick" (Luke 5:31).

But the last headline actually did startle me, and the article continued what the title began. "[To be Christian in North Korea] is really seen as treason against their whole political system—a system built to deify the leader." Thus, the current regime "has a history of persecuting believers in the most savage of ways, including public execution." Such an article startles those who are at ease in any belief to reflection. How sacred is the faith of one who is willing to face execution for it? How treasured the Bible that must be buried in the backyard for protection? And why is it so easy from places of comfort to forget those who are persecuted when the rule of faith we follow is supposedly the same?

For the early persecuted church, the Rule of Faith, or regula fidei, was the essential message, the fixed gospel through which they saw the world. It was the foundation that set the Christian apart and often put them in danger: profession of one God, salvation in Christ, and the presence of the Holy Spirit. It was also the foundation on which they stood when all else was stripped away. In the life of a confessing Christian, the Rule of Faith was seen as the normative compendium, the communal account of the story that held the individual through daily trials and united them with the believing community. The Rule was not a rival of the Scriptures; on the contrary, it was the worldview that emerged from Scripture, but also the worldview with which they approached the Scriptures, their lives, communities, and afflictions.

In a world averse to rules and intent on independence, it may be all the more tempting to deem the regula fidei a relic—and hence an irrelevancy—of the early church. But to men and women persecuted in North Korea, the regula fidei, the very heart of the Story for which they suffer is the rule by which they live. To them we owe the startling reminder: we are not islands of spiritual autonomy, but pilgrims who think, live, and serve with the truth and power of a thoughtful chorus.

To be Christian is to follow God's Way in the world, a Way that compels us to move along with it. For some this will mean persecution, even martyrdom; for others it will mean laboring to avoid becoming at ease in Zion, moving to the beat of a drum that may take us where we don't want to go. But movement it will require: “As they led [Jesus] away, they seized a man, Simon of Cyrene, who was coming from the country, and they laid the cross on him, and made him carry it behind Jesus. Then they brought Jesus to the place called Golgotha (which means the place of a skull)” (Luke 23:26, Mark 15:22). The regula fidei is the heart of a startling story, a story that turns the world on its head and empowers a different kingdom. And thus, it is something quite like the heart of God, which brings rhythm to a chaotic world and sweeps many up into its mission.

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries.

(1) Matthew Provonsha, "New Study Reveals that Religion Does Not Lead to a Healthier Society" Skeptic, Vol. 12, No. 3.
Sam Knight, "Prayer Does Not Heal the Sick, Study Finds," Times Online, Mar. 31, 2006.
Christian Caryl and B. J. Lee, "Houses of the Hidden: North Korea's Christians Face Execution," Newsweek International, Oct. 1, 2007.

The Recalcitrant Jesus

Thu, 11 Mar 2010 00:00:00 GMT

The sharp distinction between the historical Jesus and the Christ of faith common in New Testament studies has proven to be an inexhaustible mine for those searching for melodramatic ideas to bounce around during important Christian holidays. The historical Jesus is taken to be the merely human person who was born and raised in Palestine and was crucified during the days of Pontius Pilate. The Christ of faith is assumed to be a mythical, supernatural figure invented by the early admirers of the earthly Jesus. Such thinking flourished in eighteenth century German biblical scholarship, particularly after the posthumous publication of the private notes of Herman Samuel Reimarus between 1774 and 1778.

Inspired by Reimarus’s doubts concerning the historicity of the biblical record, many other scholars published monographs in which they cast Jesus in various religious and cultural roles unhinged from the supernatural. The whole movement, which became known as “the old quest of the historical Jesus,” was brought to a near screeching halt by the 1906 publication of Albert Schweitzer’s book, The Quest of the Historical Jesus, whose title also branded the movement. Schweitzer demonstrated that the scholars of the old quest shared something in common—they relied heavily on their presuppositions about who they believed Jesus was and so “each individual created him in accordance with his own character.”(1) In other words, each one of them ended up producing the Jesus they went out looking for in the first place.

Unfortunately, the tendency to recast Jesus in our own image continues even in our day. In scholarly circles, it is represented by the Jesus Seminar which refuses to allow the possibility of the supernatural for those who have “seen the heavens through Galileo’s telescope.”(2) Even among believers, it rears its ugly head whenever we prefix the name of Jesus with the possessive pronoun “my” in order to secure our turf from unwelcome scrutiny. A few years ago, a friend and I attended a church in which several people broke out in convulsive laughter in the middle of the worship service. My friend later informed me that they were laughing in Jesus. I knew something about the historical Jesus, but this was my first encounter with the hysterical Jesus and further evidence of his protean flexibility in human hands.

The allure of the personality of Jesus is impossible to shake off, whether in profane expressions of provocation or in moments of fervent praise. Enthusiastic children sing about him in Sunday school, while seasoned, scrupulous, dyed-in-the-wool ivory tower scholars make flourishing careers out of studying or even quibbling with his words. The New Ager wants him for an ascended master. The Hindu wants him for a guru. The Muslim will accept him as a prophet of Allah. The secular humanist admires him as a great moral teacher, and the oppressed of the world identify with his suffering. Like an immensely gifted athlete with some eccentric personality quirkiness, it seems Jesus will be welcomed into almost any team, provided the coaches retain a measure of confidence that they can tame him. We insist on meeting Jesus on our own terms, and our ideas of who he is invariably take the form of our most cherished images. Like the proverbial queen in Snow White, our questions about Jesus are sometimes motivated by predetermined answers. We ask, “Mirror, mirror on the wall, which Jesus is the fairest of them all?” and the only answer we will accept is the one that best suits our fancies.

But in spite of our audacious determination to craft a custom-made god out of the story of Jesus, the Jesus of the Bible remains in complete command of himself and us. When the dust settles, it is the eternally imposing figure of the Incarnate Son of God that lies behind the hauntingly inescapable question, “Who do you say that I am?” (Matthew 16:15). Any honest search for an answer to this question must take our presuppositions to account in light of the available evidence. The main question we all have to contend with is our attitude towards a world in which there exists a Being totally outside our control and to whom we must subject our autonomy. In his book, The Last Word, philosopher Thomas Nagel may have spoken for many when he attributed his own preference for the non-existence of God to a “cosmic authority problem.”(3)

We are easily broken over the pain and suffering we see around us, and well we should. But what a day of rejoicing it is when our hearts are broken by the sweet bitterness of seeing our own sinfulness against the blinding purity of the Son of God; when our fists begin to loosen our grip on the stones we would self-righteously cast at others, and when we finally approach God, not as his advisors, but as sinners in need of mercy and forgiveness! When the intent is right and the mirror is the word of God in its historical context, the revelation that true beauty lies in Christ alone will only drive us ever closer to the restoration of our own beauty in Him. Such an encounter with our Creator is not to be found amidst the cacophony of noises within the factory of dedicated god-crafters; it is best seen when nothing obscures our view of the Cross.

J.M. Njoroge is a member of the speaking team at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia

(1) Albert Schweitzer The Quest of the Historical Jesus, (New York: Macmillan, 1962), 4.
(2) Robert Funk, Roy W. Hoover, and The Jesus Seminar, The Five Gospels (San Francisco: HarperCollins, 1997), 2.
(3) Thomas Nagel, The Last Word, (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997), 131.

Who Shall Consider It?

Wed, 10 Mar 2010 00:00:00 GMT

For his fluency with words and unrivaled poetic voice, Isaiah has been called the "Shakespeare of the prophets." His words are assuredly lyrical; they were also political and prophetic, enduring well beyond his life. Unquestionably, the prophet fulfilled the call of God with conviction. But as it is with all that God calls us to do and do whole-heartedly, it is God's voice that reverberates in creative ways unknown even to the one called, at times beyond our own understanding, beyond our own lives.

The 53rd chapter of the book of Isaiah offers the image of a servant who embodies a severe faithfulness despite unjust opposition. "He was oppressed and he was afflicted," writes Isaiah, "but he did not open his mouth" (53:7a). The prophet describes a sufferer of flint-like submission in the face of extreme violence. "He was led like a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before her shearers is silent, so he did not open his mouth" (v.7b). He describes a servant who is crushed and anguished, stricken, and yet somehow satisfied. "As a result of the anguish of his soul," writes Isaiah, "he will see it and be satisfied; by his knowledge the righteous one, my servant, will justify the many, and he will bear their iniquities" (v.11). Whether Isaiah had in mind someone who fit the description or merely longed to see God's words come to fruition, the prophet offers an image of one who changes all the rules.

Isaiah utters words abundantly verified in Jesus Christ. Almost 700 years after Isaiah's description of the suffering servant, Jesus was carrying sorrows and curing infirmities; he was suffering rejection, hatred, and affliction (v.4). He was despised and brushed aside without regard (v.3). He was taken away by a perversion of justice (v.8). He was assigned a grave with the wicked (v.9). Yet he set his face "like a flint" upon the will of God (Isaiah 50:7, Luke 9:51). He was cut off from the land of the living, so that many would live (Isaiah 53:8b).

Whether you hear it as an exile in ancient Israel, a tax collector in 1st century Jerusalem, or an academic in contemporary Europe, Isaiah's description of the suffering servant is one that warrants contemplation. Even Isaiah, out of whose mouth the description emerged, was compelled to ask with bewilderment: "Who shall consider it?" Who can imagine a man in such circumstances? Who knows what to do with a servant like this? "Who has considered that he was cut off from the land of the living for the transgression of my people, to whom the stroke was due?" (v.8a). So asks the prophet who would not live to see the suffering servant he described. How much more so should we who see the face of the prophecy consider this description of Christ?

Isaiah 53 describes a Christ oppressed and afflicted but silent, even dumb, in the face of his oppressors. Like a sheep submitting to its shearers, he did not object; he didn't even open his mouth. He was taken from justice and afflicted by people who seemed to hold some real sense of power over him. Yet he did it all willingly and silently, as if he were allowing them the power in the first place. He was a victim of violence though he had committed no violence himself. He was categorized as wicked though a deceitful word was never on his lips. There seems a paradox here like the great paradoxes of the kingdom he described: The last shall be first; the first shall be last. Those who mourn are blessed. All is not as it appears. "But who from his generation will be able to fathom it?" Isaiah seems at once to ask both a rhetorical question and a pessimistic one. Will anyone consider it? Is anyone really catching all of this? Who is really in control here—the silent one or the ones who think they are silencing him?

This metaphor of the submissive sheep is pervasive in Isaiah's description, immediately hastening images of sacrifice, blood, and atonement. Like a lamb, the sufferer was led to slaughter. In the case of most sacrificial animals, they go unsuspectingly; they follow without much thought. But this is clearly not the case in this metaphor. Isaiah describes a Christ who is led and killed, but he does not go unknowingly. While it may be natural in certain conditions for a man to follow people who end up harming him, it would not be natural for that man to follow silently in the midst of harm. A ewe might not cry with its shearers, but it would certainly bleat if you hit it repeatedly. This lamb went to his death submitting to those who led him, but it was far from unintentional. He followed with a depth of thought we have difficulty considering.

In fact, there is something altogether silencing about the one who remains still and submissive while the ultimate injustice weighs on his shoulders. Isaiah describes a servant who seems immobilized and powerless. It is the unnamed crowd in each verse that seems to be in control. It is they who afflict him, oppress him, and strike him. It is they who lead him to the slaughter and put him in a grave. Yet is it not entirely significant that this nameless crowd, which seems to hold all the power, remains at least structurally inconsequential? There is no real description offered of the oppressors in the entire chapter. "They" did not earn the subject of more than one sentence, perhaps because "they" are not the point. He is.

Hence, it is ours to consider: What if Jesus chose this path for himself? What if he chose to remain silent, to be weak in our nameless hands, to pour himself out even unto death? What if he chose to take on the violence that would bring us peace? Indeed, who shall consider it?

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

It's a Wonderful Life

Tue, 09 Mar 2010 00:00:00 GMT

“I know what I’m going to do for the next year, and the next year, and the year after that...I’m going to shake the dust off of this crummy old town and I’m going to see the world.”(1)

Frank Capra’s “It’s a Wonderful Life” is the classic film of Christmas holiday fare. It’s ubiquity on the airwaves belies its dismal performance at the box office when it was first released just after World War II.(2) Capra’s film follows the life of George Bailey in his small town. And while the film has a happy ending, it exposes the creeping despair and bitterness that comes from the loss of George’s dreams. The film offers a powerful visual of the gap that forms between knowing what George will do “the next year and the year after that” and the reality of living that leaves him wondering whether his is a wonderful life.

Despite the film’s often saccharine sentimentality, it nevertheless presents a realistic picture of lost or abandoned dreams. Like the film’s main character, George Bailey, many of us had dreams of “seeing the world” and “kicking the dust off” of our ordinary lives and existence. Our ideal plans and goals called us out into an ever-expanding future of possibility and adventure.

In this sense, “It’s a Wonderful Life” offers all who enter into its narrative a chance to look into the chasm between many cherished ideals and the often sober reality of our lives. This glimpse into what is often a gaping chasm of lost hopes and abandoned dreams offers a frightening opportunity to let go. Indeed, facing the death of ones’ dreams head on forces a moment of decision. Will we become bitter by fixating on what has been lost, or will we walk forward in hope on a path of yet unseen possibility?

For Christians, the journey through Lent offers a visible and living reminder of the fact that life entails death; it cannot be circumnavigated or avoided. Those who follow the path of Lent are presented with a similar decision: will the giving up of aspects we believe essential to our vision of a wonderful life lead us to bitterness or to hope? The discipline of Lent often reveals hands grasped tightly and tenaciously around ideals that must give way to new realities. Author M. Craig Barnes suggests that the journey away from our own sense of what makes for a wonderful life is actually the process of conversion. “It is impossible to follow Jesus and not be led away from something. That journey away from the former places and toward the new place is what converts us. Conversion is not simply the acceptance of a theological formula for eternal salvation. Of course it is that, but it is so much more. It is the discovery of God’s painful, beautiful, ongoing creativity along the way in our lives.”(3)

Lent takes those who seek to follow Jesus on an unwanted journey to the cross, and it extends an invitation to follow his example of willing surrender. “For whoever wishes to save his life shall lose it; but whoever loses his life for my sake and the gospel’s shall save it.” As Jesus prophesied to Peter, this invitation is to a place “where you do not wish to go” (John 21:18). The journey away from “the former place” is hard because we don’t want to abandon the places we think make for wonderful lives.

Yet, if we want to follow Jesus, we will have to abandon many, perhaps even all, of these cherished notions for our lives. We can choose to follow Jesus in his painful, beautiful death march to Golgotha—to die so that we may live—or we can retreat into what appears to be safe and certain ways of life. Significantly, Barnes argues that a wonderful life on our own terms is not a realistic option. “In spite of all our carefulness and hard work, we probably will not achieve the life of our dreams. In fact, our dreams are precisely the things that have abandoned us. But it is then that we hear the invitation of Jesus Christ, ‘Now is the opportunity to step out, walk forward and give your life to God.’”(5) It is a frightening invitation, to be sure, but one indeed that offers the possibility of a wonderful life.

Margaret Manning is a member of the speaking and writing team at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Seattle, Washington.

(1) Spoken by George Bailey in the film “It’s a Wonderful Life” by Frank Capra, RKO Productions 1946, 60^th Anniversary Edition.
(2) “The Making of ‘It’s A Wonderful Life,’” narrated by Tom Bosley on “It’s A Wonderful Life: 60^th Anniversary Edition,” Paramount Home Entertainment, 2006.
(3) M. Craig Barnes, When God Interrupts: Finding New Life Through Unwanted Change (Downers Grove: InterVarsity Press, 1996), 21.
(4) See Mark 8:27-38.
(5) M. Craig Barnes, When God Interrupts: Finding New Life Through Unwanted Change (Downers Grove: InterVarsity Press, 1996), 28.

The Sovereign

Mon, 08 Mar 2010 00:00:00 GMT

For years, I never used the word "sovereign" as a noun. I knew it could be used in this way—"Like a sovereign," writes Shakespeare "he radiates worth, his eyes lending a double majesty"—I just never did. But trial and tragedy have a way of waking us to words and realities overlooked. There was a time that whenever I closed my eyes to pray I was leveled by the image of the throne, and it was empty. It was somewhere in the midst of this recurrent vision that I realized my neglect of the noun. Was God indeed the Sovereign who spoke and listened? I had often used the word as an adjective. But adjectives, like good moods, seem to come and go.

The prophet Jeremiah depicts a Sovereign that cannot come and go simply because He is. God's sovereignty is not a coat that can be taken off when all is going well or when all is going poorly. God does not cease to be the Sovereign though the world refuses to bow or "distant" seems a better adjective. God's words are not stripped of their sovereignty though no one is listening or no one responds. The Sovereign of all creation is always sovereign, active, and near. On the contrary, it is we who are inconsistent.

Jeremiah chapter 6 begins with an image of the Sovereign speaking to a people unwilling to listen, an honorable Judge whose words are dishonored. "To whom shall I speak?" the LORD inquires. The question is a lonely one, reflecting both the prophet who speaks and the Sovereign whose words are ignored. The inquiry also has the force of sarcasm: Why bother speaking to a people who won't hear? But the words are not a commentary on God's behavior; God is not throwing his hands up and suggesting the route of silence. Rather, it is a commentary on God's words themselves, which are weighted with the compulsion to be heard. Though our ears are closed and we scorn his warnings, the Sovereign speaks and his words go forth with power. "God is always coming," says Carlo Carretto. "God is always coming because He is life, and life has the unbridled force of creation. God comes because He is light and light cannot remain hidden."(1) God's decrees from the throne create and sustain the world. There is a person enthroned in every word, bidding our response to every call and every sound.

Yet we listen with stubborn ears and apathetic wills. It is not a blind and stiff obedience God seeks, but a response appropriate for the Sovereign embodied in God's words and concern for creation. The people of Israel were responding with formality in sacrifice while acting shamefully in other areas. Today we often respond the same, making nods to religion but refusing to bow to the Most High. As Douglas John Hall notes, "Pride is born of the deep dissatisfaction of the creature with the limits of its creaturehood, its lack of permanency, wisdom, and power... If pride implies reaching too high, sloth means sinking too low, settling for something less than real humanity."(2) In their failure to listen, the Israelites were losing their ability to perceive altogether. "They acted shamefully, they committed abomination; yet they were not ashamed, they did not know how to blush" (Jeremiah 6:15). In our failure to kneel before the Sovereign of heaven, we lose something of what it means to be human.

I don't know why the throne was empty every time I closed my eyes some years ago. Perhaps I had removed God from the throne long before tragedy hit like a roaring sea and seemed to remove everything in its wake. Perhaps God was ruling from the rooms where we needed God most. I don't know. But the emptiness of the throne forced me to reexamine the one who inhabits sovereignty itself. Carretto's words once again hit the gist of my examining: "The true problem is this: Is God an autonomous presence before you, like you before your friend, the bridegroom before the bride, the Son before the Father? […] Can you meet God as a person on your road and prostrate yourself before Him as did Moses before the burning bush? […] Can you experience his presence in the dark intimacy of the temple as did the prophets? In short, is God the God of transcendence, and thus the God of prayer, the God of what lies beyond things, or is He only the God of immanence, revealing Himself in the fruition of matter, in the dynamics of history, in the promise to free mankind?"(2) Is God the Sovereign you will trust at the center of all things? Upon a throne high and lofty, God asks us to look again, calls us to walk in ancient paths, and promises we'll find rest for our souls.

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

(1) Carlo Carretto, The God Who Comes (Maryknoll, New York: Orbis, 1974), 3.
(2) Douglas John Hall, "What Time Is It?" 11.
(3) Carlo Carretto, The God Who Comes (Maryknoll, New York: Orbis, 1974), Intro.

The Opposite of Self-Conscious

Fri, 05 Mar 2010 00:00:00 GMT

I remember the first time I learned that legal proceedings are not always exact pictures of justice. I think my mom was trying to get me to clean my room. Trying a new tactic, she told me that if a burglar happened to break in that night, trip over the junk on my floor and break his leg, I would be the one responsible for his injuries. In such a scenario, the thief could actually take legal action against the very person he was trying to rob. I found this disturbing (though probably not enough to clean my room).

A similarly troubling picture of justice arises when a person is trying to help a victim, but ends up becoming the victim herself—such as when a passerby stops to administer CPR and winds up, for whatever reason, with a lawsuit on her hands. A newspaper column by Abigail Van Buren, known to her readers as "Dear Abby," lamented the increasing need for Good Samaritans to stop and consider the risk before providing assistance. While Abby herself noted there was no excuse to withhold help, one reader was insistent. In places without a "Good Samaritan law," which removes the liability of the one providing assistance, "people who offer a helping hand place themselves potentially at financial and emotional risk." She continued, "I only hope that I have the presence of mind in the future to withhold assistance in a state that has no Good Samaritan law." While the law of human nature seems to assure the majority of people will pass by an accident assuming that someone else will help out, the laws of litigation seem to warn Good Samaritans to watch their backs altogether. Consequently, in many cases, no one does anything. The victim remains the victim; the Samaritan remains unscathed.

I suppose it should not come as a surprise that we have hyper-individualized one of the most non-individualistic characters in all of storytelling. The very point of the parable of the Good Samaritan is to teach that we cannot hold these hierarchical distinctions, whether thinking in terms of race, religion, or personal liability. By the very definition Jesus offered, the Samaritan's presence of mind is the exact opposite of self-conscious. He places himself in the center of harm's way (not knowing if the thieves are still nearby), not to mention the epicenter of disdain for showing disregard to cultural norms (he was a Samaritan who should have been keeping to himself). The assurance of coming out unscathed could hardly be the Samaritan's motive for reaching out. On the contrary, the Samaritan places himself in a position where he is certain to bear the cost.

While it is indeed lamentable that the current state of the world seems to necessitate self-consciousness in dealing with our neighbors, it is both lamentable and unreasonable that we assume this was not the same scenario for the crowd who first heard the story. We seem to reason that the Good Samaritan only helped because it was not a liability for him, giving ourselves a rational exemption: "If it weren't for the law, I would be more than willing to see that person as my neighbor." In fact, the one who first asked the question that merited Jesus's telling of the parable was thinking quite similarly. His very question, "Who is my neighbor?" betrays his philosophy that the world can be classified in terms of commodities: "There are those I am responsible to help, and there are those I am not responsible to help." And he bases these distinctions on his reading of the law. Albeit a different kind of law than the laws that discourage us from helping today, it is a similar use of legalism all the same.

Yet Jesus calls the questioner away from his legalistic mindset with a story that turns these categories into smoke and mirrors. Instead of the stance of self-consciousness that asks "What will happen to me if I stop and help this man?" a far better question is posed on the lips of one who has much to lose: "What will happen to this man if I don't stop?" Setting aside the categories that could easily hold him back, the Good Samaritan has room to hold the very commandment on which all the law and the prophets hang: You shall love the LORD your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength, and your neighbor as yourself. With this wisdom in hand, the Good Samaritan, and every soul that carries his presence of mind thereafter, is not far from the kingdom of God.

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

Jesus Among Idols

Thu, 04 Mar 2010 00:00:00 GMT

Many world religions today accept the man Jesus within their belief system. Muslims call him a prophet; some Buddhists consider him a bodhisattva, and New Age practitioners call him a social activist. Amidst such diverse claims of the identity of Jesus, who is the real Jesus? This reminds me of Jesus's own question to his disciples in Matthew 16—namely, "Who do people say that I am?" A brief look at the backdrop of his question would help us better grasp the significance of this passage.

First, consider the location. The incident occurred at a place some miles northeast of the Sea of Galilee in the domain of Herod Philip.(1) It was also the reputed birthplace of the god of Pan—the god of nature and fertility—and he was staunchly worshipped there. The surrounding area was also filled with temples of classical pagan religion. Towering over all of these was the new temple to the Emperor Caesar. Thus, the question of Jesus's identity was aptly and significantly posed to his disciples against a myriad of gods and idols.

Second, consider Peter's response. The answer Peter accorded to Jesus's question—"You the Christ, the Son of the living God"—was a title with implications that the original audience knew perfectly well. Peter was describing Jesus as the Promised One who would fulfill the hopes of the nation. The interesting thing, though, is that the original audience was expecting a Messiah or savior who was more of a political figure. Of course, Jesus, the disciples were discovering, was much more than this. He described himself as the divine Son of God, and the salvation he was to bring as something not just for the Jewish nation but for peoples of all nations.

Peter's insightful confession was key in the disciples' eventual recognition of Jesus and the turn of events that would follow. Though given divine insight, Peter was as unaware as the rest of the disciples that the victory of the Messiah they professed would come in the most unexpected way. Yet from here on, God's plan was further revealed, Jesus's suffering and impending death more clearly voiced. Jesus revealed that his Messiahship involved taking on the role of the suffering servant as prophesied by the prophet Isaiah. His very identity would ultimately lead him to his cursed death on the Cross.

Of course, how Jesus lived and died had implications as to how his followers were to live as well. The earliest Christians understood this very well as many were persecuted for their faith and betrayed by their own families. The laying down of one's life was a literal reality for those who would become martyrs.

Today, most of us live in environments where the question "Who do you say that I am?" is still asked in a world of distractions. We live in a context where we have endless options to choose from: a plethora of religions, pleasure and wealth, recognition, and so on. Yet the question is as pressing to us as it was for those who first heard it. Who do we say Christ is? Our response is both personal and public. That is, the confession of allegiance to Christ is both a denial of self-importance and a life of neighbor-importance.

Regardless of what we may have been told, the way of Jesus is ultimately the way of the Cross. Signing up with Christ won't give you worldly benefits, but all the forms of suffering that arise from carrying one's cross. If we proclaim in our religiously pluralistic context that Christ is supreme over all other gods of this world, we need to be reminded that his supremacy and victory cannot be divorced from the heavy price that he paid.

Often, like Peter, we tend to expect a Lord who fits our preconceptions or ideas—perhaps one who is always "successful," or one who is validated by signs and wonders. Even the disciples were not spared this temptation. All of their questions about who would sit at his right hand and what one would secure from discipleship reveal that they were expecting glory as they walked with the Son. Their expectations likely did not include getting killed.

However, as they soon learned, any commitment to Christ that does not feature the Cross is merely devotion to an idol, for following Christ is costly. For some, following will mean death itself. It will mean taking up the Cross. It will mean living beyond comfort and preference. It will mean stepping out in love and conviction. It may mean undertaking a calling that many will scorn. Choosing to call Jesus the Christ may mean losing our lives, but then, this is the only way to truly live.

I'Ching Thomas is associate director of training at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Singapore.

(1) NIV Archaeological Study Bible (Grand Rapids, Michigan: Zondervan, 2005), 1589.

The Opposite of Self-Conscious

Wed, 03 Mar 2010 00:00:00 GMT

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.