This morning I went to a lecture given by Walter Brueggemann on the prophetic literature in the Hebrew Bible. Now, if you don't know who that is it sounds like a total snooze. I'm with you. A crusty, old, white guy talking about ancient texts. Yawn. But Walter Brueggemann is sort of a big deal, and the lecture was sort of life altering.
His lecture focused on the role of the prophet and the function of the imagery of the temple destruction (in 587 BCE) in the prophetic literature. Key to understanding the prophets is understanding their historical situation and tradition. The story of Israel prior to the destruction of the temple was that they were a chosen people who God would never abandon. A read through of Kings will show you pretty quickly that the kings of Judah and Israel weren't always nice guys. Even Solomon, who built the temple, wasn't perfect and was, in Brueggemann's words, the "Great Accumulator"--power, control, commodity, wisdom, wealth, and wives. This is Israel's "dominant narrative"--the story of who they were, the identity outside of which they could not imagine existence. Then in 587 the Babylonians sack Jerusalem and destroy the temple, the dwelling place of God on earth, and cart the people off into captivity. And the prophets don't say "I told you so" because their mothers taught them manners.
So who are these prophets anyway? They are those speaking from elsewhere into the dominant narrative. They are the voice of the outsider who can see something is terribly wrong. They are uncredentialed poets who speak of God's intended economy of holiness and neighborliness. Their role is to walk us into our failures and out into hope. Jeremiah 1:10 says the prophet is to pluck up, pull down, destroy, and overthrow the dominant narrative and instead build and plant something else. Later (9:23-4) Jeremiah is to overthrow the wisdom, wealth, and might of the dominant narrative in favor of the love, justice, and righteousness of relation and neighborliness.
The prophets are often viewed as angry, but woe is a sad word, not an angry word. It is the deep sadness of seeing that what is is unsustainable and destined for failure. Woe to you who are so anesthetized by your stuff that you don't see what's going on (Amos 6:4-7). Woe to you who steal from your neighbors, are self-indulgent, and call things by their wrongful names to hide their true nature (Isaiah 5:8-23, Habakkuk 2:6-19). Woe to you who exploit those who cannot stop you (Luke 6:24-26). Woe to you hypocrites (Matthew 23:13-29). Woe to you who think there are no consequences for your actions (Hosea 4:1-3, Jeremiah 5:26-29). You are headed to a place you don't want to go. The prophets MUST make us face these things that lead to destruction, otherwise there can be no repentance and restoration. The prophets must plunge us into despair (didn't they do a good job) before they can lead us back toward hope.
So what are these things for us now? Brueggemann argues that our 587 BCE is 9/11. This is the point at which the US's narrative of self-importance and infallibility, our "chosen-ness", came into question for us. We could not imagine a narrative in which we were not chosen and "God blessed", where we were not the good guys. We could not imagine why anyone would wish us harm. Never mind all the horrific things we had done in the name of national and economic security. I'm not really sure where the line for national security is (Can we and should we have security outside of Christ?), or if there even is any such thing, but his argument is compelling. We are currently living in a world where the dominant narrative, built on the backs of exploited peoples, is one of consumerism and greed. It's built at the expense of our planet. It's sustained at the expense of our families and our health. Brueggemann believes that we can't walk out of our 587 until we face our failure. From my own experience I know this to be true. Putting your head in the sand doesn't make the problem go away. The problem just grows while you smile and pretend things are okay.
This is the point of Lent, to walk us into our 587. Lent culminates in crucifixion, a descent into hell, and resurrection. We examine where we've turned away, where we've been led into captivity, and we return to God for healing and hope. We allow God to move us beyond restoration and into transformation. I don't simply want to be restored to what I was--I want to become something purer and holier. And I want you to come with me. This is the essence of our Christian lives, moving onward toward perfection in love of God and others. This is the kingdom. This is heaven. And God aches to give it to us.
But often we are no good at being the kingdom. In large things and in small we daily we reject the offer of heaven.
When we hide from our hurts. We reject heaven.
When we deny healing. We reject heaven.
When we hold on to anger. We reject heaven.
When we don't stop and listen. We reject heaven.
When we refuse accept love. We reject heaven.
When we ignore those who are "other". We reject heaven.
When we perpetuate injustice. We reject heaven.
When we hate mercy. We reject heaven.
When we refuse to walk humbly with God. We reject heaven.
Accepting heaven is hard because it is among us now and yet just out of reach. It is ephemeral and paradoxical and concrete and so very real. We know all of this because we've experienced it--healing, joy, answered prayer, fellowship, grace, peace, and unfathomable, unprecedented, unmerited love. And we also know heaven exists because we've seen the hell of war, hunger, poverty, genocide, rape, depression, substance abuse, and domestic violence. These are not spiritual imaginings. These are the active forces of heaven and hell among us.
As someone who feels all the feelings all the time I know it is hard to live life openly before God, because living for God means living for and in but not of the world. In the words of Jason Gray, "To bring my heart to every day--to run the risk of fearlessly loving without running away." It hurts and it's messy, just ask Jesus. It can feel like a no-win situation. We wonder if things will change. How will we ever make a difference?
The good news is that we are not the ones who have to make a difference. The difference has already been made. We know how the story ends. God leaps up to save us from ourselves. To save me from me and you from me. To hand us heaven trusting that we will, to the best of our God-given ability, walk humbly. And this gift, though freely given, requires work on our part. It's not a stroll through the tulips. It's a good and worthwhile fight against the dominant narrative that wants to shush the good news of Christ.
So the end of what I'm thinking about--what I want you all to think about--is what do we need to be led through and to? What do we need to lament? Where are we denying God's offer of heaven? You do it. I do it too. We can choose to stop. Let's stop. Let us open our eyes and choose instead to participate in God's good work already going on around us. Let us not keep silent when we see injustice. Let us offer mercy and charity first, and in such abundance that offering anything else becomes unnecessary. Let us not simply walk, but run humbly to God. Let us be the kingdom. Dear God! Let us be your kingdom!
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