A Dozen Days of Dragons

Begin reading this series at Day One: An Apocalyptic Christmas Story

Or, read Day Two: A Great Sign in Heaven

Yes, there are dragons in the Bible.

Immediately after the prophet Isaiah laments the suffering of the people of Judah, a nation writhing in pain as a woman suffering the agony of child birth, he reassures them the wrath will pass. The Lord will act, and those who dwell in the dust shall awake and sing for joy. Then, Isaiah promises in the next breath,

On that day the LORD with his cruel and great and strong sword will punish Leviathan the fleeing serpent, Leviathan the twisting serpent, and he will kill the dragon that is in the sea.

Isaiah 27:1

Amidst the travails of childbirth, says Isaiah, lurks the fleeing serpent, the twisting serpent coiled to strike, that represents the enemy of Judah. Leviathan, the dragon that is in the sea, actually appears several times in the Hebrew scriptures. In another passage, Isaiah recalls God’s deliverance of his people from Egypt by asking God, “Was it not You who cut Rahab to pieces, who pierced the dragon?” (Isaiah 51:9).

To clarify, “Rahab” in this verse is an entirely different Hebrew word, even pronounced differently, from the name of the Canaanite woman who protected the Hebrew spies in the Old Testament story of Jericho’s fall. It’s not actually a name at all, and is not capitalized in the original Hebrew text. This ancient Hebrew word would be better translated into English as “the insolent one” or “the arrogant one.” Medieval translators erred by capitalizing the word as if it were a name, and we’ve been stuck with their translation mistake ever since.

The word is used again in Job 26:12–13: “By his power he stilled the sea; by his understanding he struck down Rahab. By his wind the heavens were made fair; his hand pierced the fleeing serpent.”

The psalmist, like Isaiah, uses Leviathan the dragon to represent Israel’s enemy, in this case, Egypt. “You divided the sea by your might; you broke the heads of the dragons in the waters. You crushed the heads of Leviathan.” (Psalm 74:13–14)

So there’s a pattern in scripture of using Leviathan, the dragon, to represent the enemy of God’s people, the pagan nations that opposed Israel and Judah. When foreign armies invaded, they were dragons emerging from the raging sea. When God delivered the nation from its enemies, proclaim psalmist and prophet, it was like cutting off the head of the dragon.

In his revelation, John the Seer echoes the pattern of Isaiah by placing the dragon lurking in the birthing chamber. Now John beholds two signs in the heavens … following hard after the great sign of the woman in childbirth, comes …

… a great red dragon, with seven heads and ten horns, and seven diadems on his heads.

Revelation 12:3

There’s a specific reason John describes the dragon as having crowns on each of its seven heads, and 10 horns. We’ll get to that discussion later. But first, what are we to make of this great red dragon?

John tells us later in chapter twelve that the great dragon is “that ancient serpent, who is called the Devil and Satan, the deceiver of the whole world.” (Revelation 12:9)

Remember that the scriptures are translated into English from several ancient languages, primarily Hebrew and Greek. Those languages don’t have uppercase letters, so anytime you read a verse like Revelation 12:9 that includes a capitalized word like “Satan,” those words were not capitalized in the original manuscripts. Translators are making an interpretive decision here, bowing to church tradition, by treating “Satan” as a proper name.

This is called a transliteration — carrying over the foreign language word rather than translating into its English equivalent, thus leaving the word untranslated. A transliteration doesn’t tell you the meaning of the words, but it helps you pronounce them. For example, an Arabic language word is transliterated as “Allah” because that is what the word sounds like when spoken in that language. An actual translation of the meaning of that word from Arabic to English language, however, would be “God.”

In the original language of the ancient Hebrew text, “Satan” was not written as a name, or even a proper noun. Rather, “ha satan” is Hebrew for “the adversary.” Whenever the word “Satan” appears in scripture, a transliteration would be “the satan” (lowercase), or even better, the translation would be “the adversary.” Which perfectly fits the imagery of the dragon for Israel’s enemies.

Just as translators chose to render “the arrogant one” with the name, “Rahab,” so they chose to render “the adversary” with the name, “Satan.” It’s the same translation error, cemented in tradition.

Likewise, “devil” is translated from the Greek word “diablos” — “accuser” or “slanderer.” That’s where the English word “diabolical” comes from, but it’s not a proper name.

There is no personage, or being, in scripture who is named “Satan.” Rather, there is a symbolic figure that in the Hebrew language is referred to as “ha satan,” in the Greek language as “diablos,” in the English language as “the adversary” or “the accuser.” John the Seer, like prophet and poet before him, uses the imagery of a dragon to depict the satan, the devil, the adversary of God’s people.

This seems to be the way Jesus thought of the satan. After Peter declares that Jesus is “the Messiah, the Son of the living God” (Matthew 16:16), Jesus proclaims that God revealed this truth to Peter and promises him the keys of the kingdom of heaven. But when Jesus begins talking about suffering and dying at the hands of the religious authorities, Peter insists, “This must never happen to you!”

To which Jesus abruptly rebukes him, “Get behind me, Satan!”

I don’t think Jesus means that Peter, his devoted disciple whom he just praised, is literally the devil. I think Jesus means that Peter is acting as an adversary to the mission of Jesus. Peter is opposing the work of God, and thus in that moment acting as the satan.

There’s even an Old Testament story in which God is described as “ha satan.”

In Numbers 22:22, God sends an angel to block the path of the prophet Balaam. “God’s anger was kindled because (Balaam) was going, and the angel of the LORD took his stand in the road as his adversary.” In this instance, translators chose to actually translate “ha satan” as “adversary,” rather than transliterate the Hebrew into the name, “Satan.” Perhaps they were uncomfortable translating the verse to say “the angel of the LORD took his stand in the road as Satan.” But it’s the exact same Hebrew word, “ha satan.” The angel of the LORD stood as the satan against Balaam the prophet.

So “the satan” is a fluid image in the scriptures. When John the Seer refers to the satan, he doesn’t depict the satan with a pitchfork or horns or a red cape, as we might today. He depicts the satan as a seven-headed dragon. They are both images, one modern and one ancient, used to symbolize or personify an evil force that operates in opposition to God.

Just as the prophet Isaiah used the imagery of the dragon to represent the northern invaders, and just as the psalmist used the imagery of the dragon to represent Egypt, so John uses the imagery of the dragon, whom he calls the satan, to represent the power of the Roman Empire arrayed against the Kingdom of Christ.

So, if the satan is not a literal person or being, then what are we to make of it? How are we to understand it?

Let’s be honest, much of what we think about the devil is inspired more by medieval caricatures, Hollywood movies, and Frank Peretti novels than by anything found in scripture. There’s not much of a scriptural basis to understand the devil, and most of the Bible verses we quote are taken out of context or misinterpreted. Most folks don’t really believe the devil is a two-horned, red-caped being with a pitchfork, or that he sits on a throne in hell and rules over the demons and the damned. But we have to sort through a lot of cultural clutter to find anything of value.

Jesus, likewise, had to deal with an assortment of images and traditions about the satan from his own culture.

For example, there’s an episode when Jesus cures a “demoniac” who is blind and mute. The Pharisees (a group of religious laymen who were influential in their community) insisted that, “It is only by Beelzebul, the ruler of the demons, that this fellow casts out the demons.” (Matthew 12:24)

Who is this Beelzebul?

Beelzebul, like our modern conception of the devil, is a caricature formed more by culture than by scripture. There’s no biblical basis for believing in Beelzebul … it’s strictly a cultural tradition, birthed in pagan religion and adapted by generations of Hebrews.

Originally, Beelzebul, whose Hebrew name is Ba’al Zebûb, is introduced in the Old Testament as the god of the Philistine city of Ekron (2 Kings 1:2). “Ba’al” means “lord” and “Zebûb” means either “dwelling” or “flies” (it’s sometimes hard to sort out ancient languages). It’s possible that “Lord of the Flies” was a reference to the supposed healing powers of this Canaanite deity, who expelled flies that caused sickness. This makes sense in light of the story from 2 Kings, which is about an Israelite king who goes to Beelzebul to receive healing. But it’s also possible that, over the centuries, the name morphed from “Lord of the Heavenly Dwelling” into the pejorative “Lord of the Flies” because Zebûb is similar to the Hebrew word for flies, and was meant to associate a false god with the pests feasting on excrement.

Somewhere along the way, Beelzebul became associated with demons. Because generations of Israelites were exiled into foreign lands, or lived under the rule of successive empires, or rubbed shoulders with neighboring pagan cultures, it’s easy to understand how foreign ideas about heaven and hell, demons and angels, could seep into their own consciousness. Just think about how much of Eastern religious philosophy, from yoga to meditation to mindfulness, has become part of our own culture in the United States.

In some strands of this amalgamation of Jewish and pagan tradition, Beelzebul was among the highest-ranking demons, second-in-command under Satan. In other strands, Beelzebul was synonymous with Satan. This seems to be the tradition the Pharisees embraced when they accused Jesus of being in league with Beelzebul. Again, there is nothing like this taught in the Old or New Testament; it’s strictly a cultural mythology that arose as a result of foreign influences.

So Jesus responds to the Pharisees by saying,

“Every kingdom divided against itself is laid waste, and no city or house divided against itself will stand. If Satan casts out Satan, he is divided against himself; how then will his kingdom stand? If I cast out demons by Beelzebul, by whom do your own exorcists cast them out? Therefore they will be your judges. But if it is by the Spirit of God that I cast out demons, then the kingdom of God has come to you.” (Matthew 12:25–28)

Let’s begin unraveling this story by asking a simple question: Do we believe in the literal existence of a Canaanite deity named Beelzebul? No, of course not, no more than we believe in the pantheon of Greek and Roman gods and goddesses. Do you think Jesus really believed in the literal existence of a Canaanite deity named Beelzebul? No, of course not. Jesus believed in the One True God, whom he called Father.

Likewise, there’s no reason to believe in the literal existence of a demon (of whatever rank) named Beelzebul, and no reason to believe that Beelzebul and Satan are two names for the same being. That’s just an ancient tradition, based on mythology and misunderstanding. But Jesus didn’t challenge the belief of his listeners in a literal being named Beelzebul. Instead, Jesus takes advantage of their superstition to make a larger point. He utilizes their own argument to help them see their error.

Jesus warned his listeners about the spirit of opposition that can lay waste to a kingdom, or a city, or a household if it’s allowed to fester. When we are divided, we are weakened. When we separate into antagonistic tribes (or political parties, or socio-economic groups), we are following a divisive spirit, we are being led by the spirit of Beelzebul. This spirit is the satan. And Jesus comes to cast out the satan, to heal division and bring unity.

Evil is so pervasive, so common to our experience, yet feels so utterly alien to who we are and who we want to be, that we naturally grasp for an explanation outside ourselves. We look for a source outside ourselves to blame for the evil in the world because it is too painful to blame ourselves. We all say we desire peace and unity, yet we all yield to the temptation of conflict and divisiveness. We all cherish love and peace, yet we all treat others in ways that are unloving and act in ways that are anything but peaceful. If you don’t believe me, just open a social media app on your phone.

So we need some kind of language to describe this phenomenon, the very real existence of evil within us and among us. It’s helpful to consider the satan (or, Satan) as a personification of evil. That is, a helpful way of understanding and creatively portraying the very real phenomenon of evil that exists in the world. Much as Uncle Sam is a personification of the United States, which of course is a very real country. Uncle Sam is not an actual person, though it is sometimes helpful to depict Uncle Sam when we want to say something about the United States.

Just as the ancient prophets and psalmists used the imagery of the dragon to personify the evil empires that attacked them, so we can use the imagery of a red-caped, horned devil with a pitchfork to personify the evil instincts, attitudes, and actions that pervade the human experience. We can call this personification, this image, by the name of Satan (or Beelzebul) if we wish … so long as we remember that we are figuratively referring to the phenomenon of evil rather than to an actual person/being.

Brian Zahnd, in his book, “Postcards from Babylon,” offers another helpful way of understanding the phenomenon of evil:

But is the devil an actual personage? I think the answer is … almost. I understand the devil as more than a metaphor, but less than a person; the devil is a phenomenon — but a phenomenon so complex that it verges on self-awareness.

Consider hurricanes. Hurricanes are meteorological phenomena; they are highly organized and extremely dangerous weather systems. We are so in awe of their destructive power that we personify them by giving them names. Camille, Hugo, Andrew, Katrina. Naming hurricanes doesn’t mean we believe there is a person in the sky named Katrina wreaking havoc on New Orleans. But if we say Katrina isn’t a person, that doesn’t mean Katrina doesn’t exist! Katrina very much exists and she is very dangerous. But hurricanes are simple compared to Satan. Hurricanes are weather systems formed by moist warm air, the rotation of the earth, and a few other relatively simple factors. The satanic, on the other hand, is generated from the greatest complexity we know anything about — the complexity of the human psyche and human social structures. Out of human anxiety, rivalry, rage, and blame, the devil is born …

But in saying that the devil is a spiritual and sociological phenomenon — more than a metaphor, less than a person — let no one say I don’t believe the devil is real! Of course I believe the devil is real! The devil is more real than Hurricane Katrina that (who?) claimed 1,833 lives. It’s true — “the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.”

Do I believe in spiritual forces of evil? Yes, I just don’t believe there is literally a dragon flying around in outer space, orbiting the earth. Any more than I believe there exists a horned being with a pitchfork and a red cape. Any more than I believe there exists a personage, or being, wearing the name tag “Satan” or “Beelzebul.”

I believe in a literal ha satan, but a figurative Satan.

John the Seer doesn’t believe in a literal being named Satan, either. John describes the satan being thrown into the lake of fire along with death and hades and the beast (more prophetic imagery that we’ll discuss later). Death, Hades, and Beast are all symbolic figures, images used to represent a real phenomenon. If we don’t take them literally, how can we take the satan literally? How can a literal being share the same fate as these figurative beings? How can a literal being be thrown into a figurative lake of fire? Mixing literal and figurative images together makes a hodgepodge of John’s vision. If death and hades and beast are figurative, then so is the satan.

But I do believe there is a spiritual reality that is being represented by the symbolic imagery of the satan, the devil, the dragon, the ancient serpent. Those images depict something real and consequential with which we must grapple.

Evil is real, it is literal. Human beings share a universal experience of evil. (I would prefer to say we are undeveloped, or un-evolved, or still a work in progress, rather than say we are sinful or evil, but that’s another subject for another day). We all suffer from the adversity of hate, or selfishness, or jealousy, or greed. When evil targets us, opposes us, we can call it the satan.

When the scriptures remind us that our battle is not against flesh and blood, but against spiritual forces of evil, we understand those spiritual forces exist within us, and within others, but also beyond us. There is a sense in which evil lies in the spaces between human beings, in the tensions of our relationships, giving rise to a phenomenon that is easier to describe with images than explanations, easier to understand when we personify it as a being named Satan.

Psychologist and author Richard Beck, in his book “Old Scratch,” sums it up well:

Shall I say it again? The Devil is real. I’d love to have a Christianity full of rainbows and daisies, full of love and inclusion. But there are forces working against love and inclusion in the world, and some of those forces are at work in my own heart and mind. We call those forces hate and exclusion, to say nothing about everything else that is tearing the world to shreds, pushing the loving and gracious rule of God out of the world. Hate is the satan of love. Exclusion is the satan of inclusion. War is the satan of peace. Oppression is the satan of justice. Tearing down is the satan of building up. Competition is the satan of cooperation. Revenge is the satan of mercy. Harm is the satan of care. Hostility is the satan of reconciliation.

This has been a long chapter, probably too long. Why am I spending so much virtual ink belaboring this point? Because it seems to me that those who want to blame the devil for their troubles, who are always looking for demons to blame, tend to find them behind every bush. Or possessing every enemy. It’s easier to point to the devil than to point to myself. It’s easier to blame the satan than to do the hard work of reconciliation and justice … first in my own heart, then in my relationships with other people.

We need the accountability that comes from owning up to our own role in creating and perpetuating the satan. We also need hope, and when we recognize the complex source of evil and unmask it’s power, we can do something about it.

“Resist the devil,” the scripture says, “and he will flee.”

Day Two: A Great Sign in Heaven

A Dozen Days of Dragons

Begin reading Day One: An Apocalyptic Christmas Story

This story begins the way so many of the visions in Revelation do, with thunder and lightning, earthquake, and hail. Then,

A great sign appeared in heaven …

Revelation 12:1

A woman appears in the sky, a great sign. Clothed in blazing light, wearing a gown woven from the rays of the sun, each thread glowing and flashing. A dozen pulsating stars form a crown around her head. She stands over the moon. And she is pregnant. So very pregnant.

We recognize this woman, don’t we?

Seven centuries before Jesus was born, the Lord spoke through the prophet Isaiah, to King Ahaz of Judah, and invited him to ask for a sign that God would deliver the beleaguered nation from its enemies.

Let the sign, invited Isaiah, “be as deep as the grave or as high as the heavens.”

Hmmm … a sign in the heavens … but King Ahaz, putting his faith in a corrupting foreign alliance with the mighty Assyrian Empire instead of trusting God for deliverance, refused to ask for a sign. Feigning piety, the king insisted he didn’t want to put the Lord to the test. So Isaiah replies to stubborn King Ahaz:

“Therefore, the Lord himself will give you a sign. Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel.”

Isaiah 7:14

That sounds familiar. A sign, a young woman, a virgin who bears a son — Immanuel, which means “God with us.” This woman in Revelation is “with child,” the very words used in Matthew’s Christmas story to describe the Virgin Mary.

Oh, but not so fast.

Because there are layers of meaning in John’s symbols. John didn’t just make this stuff up from his own imagination, after all. John draws heavily from the Hebrew scripture. The book of Revelation is crammed full of images and references and allusions and even direct quotations from what Christians call the Old Testament. Which is why most of us have so much trouble understanding these signs and visions, because we don’t really know the Old Testament very well.

Remember Joseph’s dream? Back in the earliest pages of the Bible, Joseph, the youngest son, the favorite son, with the coat of many colors, had a prophetic dream. In Joseph’s dream, his father and mother and brothers were symbolized by the sun, the moon, and twelve stars. Now John the Seer shows us a picture of the nation of Israel, whose long history of suffering finds meaning at last as birth pangs … pain finding purpose as Israel labors to bring forth the messiah.

On one level, the woman in the sky represents Mary the mother of Jesus. On another level, the woman in the sky is a symbol for Israel, from whom was born the messiah.

As we watch, the woman in the sky collapses into the travail of childbirth. The joyful hymn sung by the twenty-four elders around God’s throne in heaven is drowned out by the piercing cries of the woman in labor.

This is Christmas. Cries of pain amidst carols of hope. Blood and sweat and the stench of livestock in the manger, beneath a canopy of angels and glory shining. Waiting for God to do a miracle in the dead of night.

Sometimes the miracle doesn’t come, or doesn’t come in the way we expect. Neither King Ahaz nor the prophet Isaiah could have foreseen the ultimate fulfillment of the Immanuel prophecy, not in the way Matthew and John interpreted the birth of Jesus. Isaiah’s prophecy was fulfilled in the short term when the enemies of King Ahaz were defeated, but the worst king in the history of Israel continued to wreak havoc upon the nation. And that changed Isaiah’s prayers and prophecies.

Some of us, for whom hope is hard to come by, end up praying desperately along with Isaiah:

“Like a woman with child, who writhes and cries out in her pangs when she is near her time, so were we because of you, O LORD; we were with child, we writhed, but gave birth only to wind. We have won no victories on earth, and no one is born to inhabit the world.”

Isaiah 26:17–18

What do you do, when there are birth pangs but no birth? When the time comes to deliver, and you receive only empty wind? When no infant is born and there are no victories on earth? What do you do with such crushing disappointment?

Sometimes, for some of us, Christmas feels like that, a promise cruelly snatched away. An empty chair at Christmas dinner. A family gathering interrupted by pandemic. Christmas is especially hard, our grief and sadness made worse by the knowledge that this is supposed to be a joyful season. We feel alone and guilty for our suffering amidst a sea of holiday cheer. At times like that, we need John’s apocalyptic Christmas story to give us hope.

Hope is often born surreptitiously. Hope isn’t as noisy as grief, as attention-grabbing as conflict, as obvious as trauma. But hope is persistent.

This is the Christmas story John tells in Revelation.

Just as you draw in your breath to sing that carol, just as you hold out your hands to catch the infant being birthed …

Just then, a dragon intrudes upon the vision … ugly and menacing, crowding into the night sky. The fiery reptile is an angry red wound torn against the starry host, with seven heads all coiled to strike, seven mouths agape. Fangs glistening with venom. Ravenous to devour the infant as he emerges from the womb. How can a vulnerable new mother defend herself and her child against such a fearsome creature?

Christmas isn’t necessarily a happy story, in the beginning. Like life, it is more complicated than that. There is a dragon in John’s Christmas story.

I’m tired of snowmen and reindeer and lost puppies. This Christmas story, believe it or not, has a dragon.

No, this isn’t the familiar Christmas story you’ve heard from Luke, with singing angels and wonder-struck shepherds crowding around a cozy manger on a starry night. And no, this isn’t the familiar Christmas story you’ve heard from Matthew, with mysterious strangers following a star to bring gold and frankincense and myrrh to Baby Jesus.

But this Christmas story is also in the Bible. And it has a dragon … a menacing, bloodthirsty dragon with claws and fangs and horns.

You may have never heard this Christmas story before. I’m sure it’s never been made into a holiday TV special or a Hallmark movie. But it is a biblical Christmas story. As we approach Christmas Day and the start of the Christmas season, it’s worth reflecting upon this unfamiliar version of the familiar story.

Yes, I said the start of the Christmas season … the sacred season of Christmas doesn’t actually begin until December 25, no matter what Wal-Mart and Amazon tell us. Historically, in the Christian faith, the four Sundays prior to Christmas Day are the sacred season of Advent … a time of waiting and longing rather than shopping and consuming.

Like most of my Christian friends, I haven’t always observed Advent. But I’ll never forget my family’s first Advent wreath, a new-to-us ritual that turned out to be more scary than sacred.

My wife was napping on the couch on a slow December evening, so quiet you could almost hear the snowflakes touch the ground. I was relaxing with a book and a cup of coffee, wrapped in a cozy sweater in the upstairs den. Until my wife’s alarmed shouts shattered the peace.

I raced down the stairs to the living room to find our Advent wreath in flames. Apparently one of the candles had ignited the greenery. I grabbed the wreath, holding it out in front of me, arms outstretched, dodging the dog at my feet as I raced to the front door to chuck it outside.

But you know what happens when you blow on a flame, right? The faster I ran, the higher the flames engulfed the wreath. Which I was carrying in my hands. Right in front of my face. I was too panicked to slow down; fortunately, the front door was only a few steps away. Someone opened the door for me to toss the wreath outside. And there it lay, unceremoniously discarded, the flames extinguished in the snow.

Our Advent observances have been more safety conscious, and flame retardant, in the years since.

Christmas Day, which follows four weeks of Advent, marks the first day of the Christmas season. Which means December 25 is the beginning, not the end, of the Christmas season. Christmastide then lasts a total of twelve days. Hence the popular (if irritating) carol, “On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me …” Christmas is always twelve days, but the turtle doves are optional.

Turns out, some of our more cherished Christmas traditions are getting shoved into the “optional” category. Again this year, the holiday season reminds us of the stress and strangeness of the times in which we live. We may not be able to travel over the river and through the woods to grandmother’s house. And I don’t expect to see any carolers violating social distancing rules in my neighborhood.

In this season of plague and poverty, racial unrest and reckoning, political failure and pandemic fever, climate chaos and civic collapse … in this apocalyptic season, let’s gather ‘round to hear a Christmas story fit for our time, the Christmas story as told in the book of Revelation, chapter twelve.

Revelation, the most mysterious and controversial book of the Bible, belongs to an ancient genre of literature known as “apocalyptic.” Apocalyptic literature emerged in times of tumult and chaos, often when a foreign army invaded and a conquering alien culture wreaked havoc upon cherished traditions and beliefs. If our god is as great as we believe, how could he allow some pagan deity to defeat us? What are we to do, when our conquerors resort to violent coercion to stamp out our religion and force their strange faith upon us? How do we survive persecution?

These ancient writers answered with imagery and symbolism. The word “apocalyptic” means “revealing” or “unveiling” … revealing the reality behind the scenes, unveiling the hidden truth behind the current crisis. By depicting events with wildly imaginative illustrations, they interpreted current affairs through a spiritual lens.

When the world around them didn’t make any sense at all, apocalyptic writers searched desperately for meaning and order. The cataclysmic events swirling around you don’t tell the whole story, they insisted; the truth lies hidden, known only by those with spiritual perception. When it seemed the world was turned upside down … when evil was ascendant … when long-held assumptions were being shattered … apocalyptic writers pulled back the veil of contemporary crisis to reveal an underlying spiritual reality that brought hope to their readers and strengthened their faith.

Apocalyptic literature was written for times such as these, don’t you think?

The book of Revelation was written during the reign of Caesar Nero in the first century Roman Empire. They were days of cutthroat palace intrigue and political upheaval, of global suffering amidst war and plague and famine, when Christians faced intense persecution for their faith. Trying to make sense of it all, John the Seer recorded the vision he received while exiled on the Isle of Patmos. John called his work “The Revelation of Jesus Christ.”

Today we just refer to it as the book of Revelation (but please don’t call it “Revelations,” plural … that’s a pet peeve). Fun Fact: Revelation may have been written before either Matthew or Luke penned their gospels, which would make the twelfth chapter of Revelation the very first nativity account. The original Christmas story! Oh, sure, there were oral traditions passed down of that holy night in Bethlehem. But John was likely the first to write it down, in dramatic fashion, which makes it ironic that his version of the nativity story is the one least familiar to us.

It’s good to be reminded what, or rather Who, John’s vision revealed. Some folks read the book of Revelation because they think it gives them a titillating peek at the future. John wants us to read his revelation because it gives us an inspired view of Jesus. Revelation’s illustrations and vivid imagery demonstrate the reality of Christ Triumphant, which frankly didn’t seem that obvious to most of its original readers, groaning under the oppressive crush of the Roman Empire. Jesus is Lord, and not Caesar! But you have to observe the world through a spiritual lens to discern this truth. This revelation, this revealing of Jesus, would sustain the faith of its readers through the dark days of suffering and persecution. It would strengthen believers to endure.

So it’s worth taking some time to reflect upon this Apocalyptic Christmas Story, written during times like ours, for people like us.

I’d like to share a dozen meditations on John’s vision, one for each day of Christmastide — though offered only sporadically, as time allows, over the coming weeks. (If you read the rest of Revelation, you’ll notice the great symbolic significance John gives to the number twelve — twelve thousand sealed as servants of God from each of the twelve tribes of Israel, for example. By happy coincidence, we have twelve days of Christmas, with the story told in the twelfth chapter of Revelation. So I feel spiritually obliged to offer twelve meditations.)

Let’s begin by simply reading an apocalyptic Christmas story …

A great sign appeared in heaven: a woman clothed with the sun, with the moon under her feet and a crown of twelve stars on her head. She was pregnant and cried out in pain as she was about to give birth.

Then another sign appeared in heaven: an enormous red dragon with seven heads and ten horns and seven crowns on its heads. Its tail swept a third of the stars out of the sky and flung them to the earth.

The dragon stood in front of the woman who was about to give birth, so that it might devour her child the moment he was born. She gave birth to a son, a male child, who “will rule all the nations with an iron scepter.” And her child was snatched up to God and to his throne. The woman fled into the wilderness to a place prepared for her by God, where she might be taken care of for 1,260 days.

Then war broke out in heaven. Michael and his angels fought against the dragon, and the dragon and his angels fought back. But he was not strong enough, and they lost their place in heaven. The great dragon was hurled down — that ancient serpent called the devil, or Satan, who leads the whole world astray. He was hurled to the earth, and his angels with him.

Then I heard a loud voice in heaven say:

“Now have come the salvation and the power and the kingdom of our God, and the authority of his Messiah. For the accuser of our brothers and sisters, who accuses them before our God day and night, has been hurled down.

“They triumphed over him by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony; they did not love their lives so much as to shrink from death.

“Therefore rejoice, you heavens and you who dwell in them! But woe to the earth and the sea, because the devil has gone down to you! He is filled with fury, because he knows that his time is short.”

When the dragon saw that he had been hurled to the earth, he pursued the woman who had given birth to the male child. The woman was given the two wings of a great eagle, so that she might fly to the place prepared for her in the wilderness, where she would be taken care of for a time, times and half a time, out of the serpent’s reach. Then from his mouth the serpent spewed water like a river, to overtake the woman and sweep her away with the torrent. But the earth helped the woman by opening its mouth and swallowing the river that the dragon had spewed out of his mouth.

Then the dragon was enraged at the woman and went off to wage war against the rest of her offspring — those who keep God’s commands and hold fast their testimony about Jesus.

Revelation 12

The proper response to “I can’t breathe!” is the repetitive inhaling and exhaling of prayer & action, prayer & action, prayer & action …

Be careful what you wish for, the saying goes, because you just might get it. And be careful what you pray for … because in these perilous times, prayer can be a risky venture.

If you are part of the Christian tradition that follows the lectionary and the sacred calendar, the gospel reading today begins in the ninth chapter of The Gospel According to Matthew. Jesus has compassion for the desperate crowd thronging around him, and tells his disciples:

“The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few; therefore ask the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into his harvest.” (Matthew 9:37–38)

I assume they did so. I imagine the disciples did as Jesus asked, and started praying right away for the Lord to send out laborers. Maybe Peter gathered them all in a circle, and they lifted up Jesus’ prayer request for the Lord to send out laborers into his harvest.

But pay attention here, because the gospel reading for this Sunday flows right on into the 10th chapter. Those chapter and verse divisions were not part of Matthew’s original text; they were added many years later in an attempt to be helpful. But sometimes, they obscure a significant point. This is one of those times.

As soon as Jesus tells his disciples to pray for the Lord to send laborers into the harvest, the very next verse (leaping over the chapter break) says, “Jesus summoned his twelve disciples and gave them authority.” Then, reports Matthew, Jesus sent them out.

Jesus tells his disciples to pray that laborers would be sent. In the next breath, he sends them out as laborers. See what happens when you pray?

You just might become the answer to your own prayer.

If you’re paying attention, you’ve noticed that the harvest is plentiful. Just as Jesus looked over the crowd, full of poor and hungry and unwashed and sickly followers, and announced that this crowd represented a great harvest for the kingdom of God … so we look around in the midst of a health crisis that also became an economic crisis that also became a racial crisis, and if we look closely enough, we can see that this, too, represents a great harvest.

Did you think the harvest was only about saving souls? When Jesus sent out his disciples as laborers into the harvest, they preached “the good news” that “the kingdom of heaven is near,” yes. They also confronted all manner of physical ailments and oppressive social structures. Actually, I stand corrected … I shouldn’t have said “also” … the good news of the kingdom is just as much about alleviating physical suffering and challenging unjust social norms as meeting spiritual needs, because they are inseparable.

You might think that these are dark days, that we are living through some dark times. But look more closely. This is what it looks like, when the light begins breaking in. This is what it looks like, when the status quo is shaken to make room for progress. This is, Jesus says, exactly what God’s harvest looks like. Society has to be knocked off balance before it can be turned around. And whether or not these days produce good fruit, whether or not these crises upon crises lead to a more just and peaceful society for us and for our children and for our children’s children, depends upon the work of God’s laborers.

There are laborers in the midst of this harvest, but they are too few. They are laboring to bring gospel peace, and gospel justice, and gospel healing, and gospel reconciliation to a community “harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd” (Matthew 9:36). Our community, yours and mine. But we need more laborers. We need more workers to be sent out, to engage the need and deliver the good news.

So on this Sunday of what ironically is called “Ordinary Time,” pray for the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into his extra-ordinary harvest. Pray hard.

Then, go. Be the answer to your own prayer.

Because this is what prayer does. Prayer is transformative.

The purpose of prayer is to change — not God, but us. Prayer is not a selfish act of soliciting God on behalf of our own desires or comfort, but a self-emptying act of solidarity with the needs and suffering of others. The act of prayer, the process of praying, reorients our hearts. If we continue to pray for the poor, we’ll eventually find ourselves giving more generously and serving more frequently. If we continue to pray for the sick, we’ll eventually find ourselves bringing a casserole to a laid-up neighbor or visiting a hospital room.

That’s why Jesus told us to pray for our enemies. You’ll never love your enemies, if you don’t start praying for them. If you’ll grit your teeth and commit to praying for your enemies, you’ll actually increase your capacity for love.

Prayer and action are not contradictory, they are symbiotic.

Mutually dependent. Two sides of the same spiritual practice. As you pray for God to send someone to labor in the harvest, don’t be surprised if you become the one who is sent.

I’ve been mightily impressed by the Methodists this week. A few days ago, their bishops called the flock to “take a stand against the oppression and injustice that is killing persons of color.” To name racism and white supremacy as sins and to act to end them. And they will join this labor by spending eight minutes and 46 seconds in prayer, at 8:46 a.m. and 8:46 p.m. each day, for at least the next 30 days. (George Floyd was killed on May 25 when a police officer kneeled on his neck for eight minutes and 46 seconds in a Minneapolis street.)

For goodness’ sake, and I mean that quite literally, that’s a lot of praying for justice and reconciliation and peace. (Because, by the way, it has to happen in that order. Christians have made a mess of things by trying to do the reconciliation part, while ignoring justice. And we’ve made fools of ourselves by thinking we could skip over the justice part and ever find peace.)

If this ends well, we may all have those praying Methodists to thank for it. (I don’t think they would mind if we all join their concert of prayer.) They remind us that praying is part of going.

Going follows praying as naturally as exhaling follows inhaling. The proper response to “I can’t breathe!” is the repetitive inhaling and exhaling of prayer & action, prayer & action, prayer & action …

Because if you inhale without the exhale, you aren’t breathing. You’re holding your breath. And we, sanctimoniously crowding into our white pews in our white churches in our white suburbs, have been mutually holding our breath for far too long.

We’re already witnessing answered prayers all around us, as white Americans have their eyes opened to the plight of their longsuffering brothers and sisters of color. We’re already witnessing answered prayers all around us, in police reforms and firings and resignations. We’re already witnessing answered prayers all around us, in marches and toppled statues and banned flags and renamed landmarks and institutions. More prayers, and more answers, are needed. The harvest isn’t finished yet … it’s barely just begun.

So, on this Lord’s Day of Ordinary Time, pray. Pray as long and as loud as the Spirit leads. Pray for the “harassed and helpless” crowd, pray for the harvest, pray for God to send laborers.

And when you get up off your knees … go. Because faith without works is dead. Because if prayer doesn’t change your heart, if prayer doesn’t incite action, you were never truly praying in the first place.

Trump crossed a spiritual line when he desecrated sacred space for crass political purposes

Donald Trump went to a church this week, but he didn’t really go to church. I hope my evangelical friends recognize the difference. I pray they will at last hold their president accountable for his serial sacrilege.

Before Trump went to a church, he ordered military and law enforcement officers to attack the peaceful, lawfully protesting citizens outside the White House. The Battle of Lafayette Square was sudden, and unexpected, and brief … unarmed civilians fleeing from rubber bullets and tear gas and flash bang grenades. Trump needed the Square cleared by any means necessary, so he could walk down the street to St. John’s Episcopal Church.

Trump’s violent attack was preceded by violent words. As bloodied and bruised men, women, and children fled in terror before riot shields, Trump was speaking from the Rose Garden and threatening to expand military force against more American citizens.

“Blessed are the peacemakers,” said Jesus.

“If the city or state refuses to take the actions that are necessary … I will deploy the United States military and quickly solve the problem for them,” said Trump.

Then he went to a church, strutting ahead of an entourage that included not a single person of color. Trump crossed a constitutional line when he deployed soldiers against civilians. Trump crossed a spiritual line when he desecrated sacred space for crass political purposes.

When Trump goes to church, he carries a Bible. But he doesn’t open it. He doesn’t read it. He doesn’t draw comfort, or inspiration, from the ancient text. He doesn’t follow the wisdom contained in its pages. Instead, after Ivanka pulls the Bible out of her $1,500 handbag, he holds the book awkwardly, groping it more than revering it, trying to figure out the best camera angle. He holds it upside down, both literally and metaphorically.

When Trump goes to church, he doesn’t pray. He doesn’t sing. He doesn’t worship. He mugs for the camera. He puffs out his chest. He doesn’t have anything to say, because he is only there for the photo op. This visit is singularly, sinfully political.

When Trump goes to church, he doesn’t even go inside. He doesn’t take time to immerse himself in the stillness of a quiet sanctuary or prayerfully light a candle or humbly kneel beside a pew. He hangs around on the sidewalk long enough for the photographers to get the shot, then he quickly walks away.

When Trump goes to church, he doesn’t join himself to the great crowd of witnesses, those martyrs of the faith and the faithful from every tongue, tribe, and nation. No, he boasts that the United States is the greatest country on earth, separate and superior. His citizenship belongs to an earthly kingdom where “blood and soil” matter more than shared humanity. He will hug a flag, but he will not pick up a cross.

When Trump goes to church, he doesn’t mention God. Or Jesus. Or George Floyd. Or make any reference at all to the suffering of the oppressed or the evils of racism.

When Trump goes to church, his route takes him past prophetically-marred walls where graffiti proclaims “No Justice No Peace.” As he degrades justice and rejects peace by sowing division and discord.

When Trump goes to church, he stands, oblivious to the irony, in front of a sign that proclaims, “All Are Welcome.” As he builds walls and puts children in cages and deports Dreamers and refugees from “shithole countries.”

When Trump goes to church, he trespasses. No, I don’t mean that he prays the traditional, “Forgive us our trespasses” (he’s on record as never having felt the need to ask God for forgiveness). I mean, he literally trespasses. He uses the church without permission. Shows up without notice. The Right Rev. Mariann Budde, the Episcopal bishop of Washington, rightly condemned Trump’s violation.

Do you see what I mean? Trump went to a church this week, but he didn’t really go to church. He was play-acting. He was posing. In his hypocrisy, Trump reduced the most sacred, precious emblems of our faith to cheesy props for a political campaign video. He scorned the ethics of Jesus. Caesar seized what belongs only to God.

I’ve written before about Trump’s transactional faith. In the wake of this latest outrage, will his evangelical and Pentecostal/charismatic supporters continue to defend him? How long will my brothers and sisters remain silent?

Part One: Ashes & Dust, and Resurrection

The last time I went to church, a pastor marked my forehead with ashes and reminded me that I am but dust, and to dust I shall return.

How we’ve all received such terrible reminders in the days since.

On that Ash Wednesday, even as the blackness of the cross was scratched across my skin, looking ahead to 40 days of Lenten fasting, reflection, and lament … I was buoyed by the assumption that at the end of this season would be an Easter celebration. Dust would be resurrected.

That was before coronavirus. Before I ever heard of “social distancing” or “flattening the curve.” Before pastors learned how to preach to their laptop cameras.

Easter Sunday is coming. But there will be no cantatas, no lillies in the sanctuary, no rousing proclamations together that “He is risen, indeed!” Not even an Easter egg hunt (unless the eggs are hidden at least six feet apart). None of the practices that traditionally mark this holiest of days.

It will be a strangely muted Easter in the vast stillness that has settled over our empty houses of worship. A celebration constrained by contagion, quieted by quarantine.

For a month of Sundays, like most Christians I know, I’ve worshiped at home, in front of a screen. Separated by geography, we stubbornly insist on the unity of the Spirit through shared liturgy and the bonds of cyberspace. This Easter Sunday — in normal times the most crowded Sunday of the year — we will forsake the assembling of ourselves together, physically, for the assembling of ourselves together, digitally.

And in the Sundays that follow, for who knows how long, we will grapple with the continued challenges posed by the pandemic. Will this microscopic virus — which has upended so many of the great institutions of society — also infect religious faith and practice in the days to come? We would be foolish to think everything will just go back to normal when we emerge from our seclusion, that we can just re-set like nothing happened. Life on the other side of pandemic will be different in ways we can’t anticipate now.

Charles Eisenstein, in an excellent essay about the potential impacts of the pandemic, takes note of the existing trends toward totalitarian control being accelerated by the pandemic:

Many of these were underway before Covid-19; since its advent, they have been irresistible. The same goes for the automation of commerce; the transition from participation in sports and entertainment to remote viewing; the migration of life from public to private spaces; the transition away from place-based schools toward online education, the decline of brick-and-mortar stores, and the movement of human work and leisure onto screens.

Covid-19 is accelerating preexisting trends, political, economic, and social.

And, of course, religious. Whatever shakes up the rest of our culture is bound to shake up our religion, too.

Eventually, our churches will reopen. Sunday services will commence as we try to return to some semblance of “normal.” What will we do then?

I ask the question because, based on my own experience, I wonder whether our connection to the local church will be as strong AC (After Corona) as it was BC (Before Corona). Churches may not change much, but we will have been changed. We will be different as a result of this crisis. And our faith will be different.

Steve Levine writes about how the Black Death, the plague of the 14th Century, radically transformed every aspect of life in Europe:

During the plague, what changed was the seemingly unchangeable, especially for people who until then had been largely invisible. What had been fixed in place was, all at once, not. As we try to discern the shape of the future, this phase of history is increasingly looking like that one.

After my longtime church closed its doors, I spent a few years disconnected from a local church (which I first wrote about in Wineskins for New Wine, as well as A Gospel for Athens (And for Us), and Confessions of a Reluctant Church Shopper). I learned some things through that experience that may be germane to our present crisis.

I learned how quickly we lose the habit of church-going. After decades of faithful Sunday morning attendance, it didn’t take long for me to start enjoying sleeping in late, long runs through the woods, lingering over coffee and the New York Times. At first I felt guilty, but soon I began to relish my Sunday mornings. I understood why so many friends and family had always resisted my insistent invitations to attend church. I appreciated how disconnected so much of our “church life” seems to the rest of the world.

So I have to wonder, after several consecutive weeks … perhaps, of consecutive months … of “free” Sunday mornings, whether we will be out of practice. Will large numbers of the congregation lose the habit of Sunday morning attendance, never to return? Will we have replaced Sunday morning services with family time, rest and relaxation … and decide these are better options?

Many of us will joyfully rush back to the pews, glad to reconnect with friends, famished for spiritual sustenance, embracing the comforting traditions and liturgies we’ve been missing. But I’ve seen estimates that 30 percent of church attenders will not return. Nobody really knows about their fellow parishioners, or even about themselves, at this point.

Another thing I learned …

After experiencing the deep gratification that comes from giving to meet the needs of my neighbors during a time when I didn’t have a church to accept my tithes, I’m less inclined now to express my generosity solely in the offering plate. Those who rally to help their neighbors through this crisis may find this kind of direct personal giving more meaningful than their monthly tithe.

As a former congregational leader, I can testify that when folks are absent from church services, they aren’t contributing, either. Summertime is always a financial struggle, because church members are on vacation or at the lake, and they don’t always remember to send in their offering when they aren’t attending. Imagine what’s going to happen to church finances if so many members aren’t attending, all at once, for long stretches this spring and summer. Especially if they are struggling to survive an economic recession or a depression. Especially the older members who are sometimes the largest contributors.

Some churches, like some small businesses, won’t survive the pandemic. Attendance and giving, already in a nosedive before the coronavirus, will not recover from the death spiral.

Sometimes, as Jesus said, the seed must die in the ground before the new plant can spring to life.

Sometimes, as Jesus said, a vine must be pruned — some branches trimmed, some branches cut off altogether — for the sake of a healthier, more fruitful plant. We are being forced to face hard realities about the ways in which our local churches have become overgrown and unproductive. What will they look like, after this pruning?

The good news … the gospel opportunity waiting to be resurrected from the sickbed of the Modern Church … is that this pandemic may reinforce some of the trends that have been percolating in recent years. COVID-19 may push us further away from a top-down hierarchy and entrenched institutionalism, away from privileging creeds and formulas over relationship (with God and others), away from a nationalistic and consumerist religiosity. The bittersweet blessing of the pandemic may be the shove it gives us toward fresh expressions of faith and new forms of Christian gathering and worship outside the steeples and stained glass.

This isn’t a call to abandon the local church, nor is it a criticism of faithful pastors and congregants. If you are blessed and nourished, by all means support your local church.

This is an invitation for those who, as the pandemic fades and they reemerge, will find themselves uninterested in returning to the old forms and structures and programs and obligations. This is a welcome into a post-covid faith that may look very different, but can still be deeply spiritual. This is permission (not that you need mine) to embrace something new as you let go of some of the old.

If you are among those reassessing your faith, reshuffling your beliefs and practices, or reorganizing your spiritual life, let’s start a conversation …

A little boy, a loving God, and the religious men who stand between them

Anthony, an 8-year-old autistic boy in New Jersey, won’t be allowed to receive his First Communion next month.

To Anthony’s parents, his exclusion is a confusing contradiction to the love they have — the love they’re sure God has — for their young son. To an outraged online community, it’s an affront to disabled people everywhere. But to their church, this makes perfect sense … and unmasks an ugly theology that infects too many churches.

An autistic boy was denied First Communion because he can’t tell right from wrong, his family says

Anthony’s parents are faithful Catholics who take seriously their responsibility for their son’s spiritual nurture. They were devastated to learn, as his father reported in a recent Facebook post, that “since Anthony is unable to determine right from wrong due to his disability they feel he is not up to the ‘benchmark required to make his communion.’”

“Benchmark.” That’s the word used by the religious authorities. Anthony doesn’t measure up, doesn’t meet the requirements, falls short of the “benchmark.” His disability disqualifies him from the sacrament.

That father’s Facebook post went viral, bringing thousands to Anthony’s defense. Complete strangers invited Anthony’s parents to worship at their churches (although most parents of special needs kids will tell you, through tears, how often they feel unwelcome at church).

St. Aloysius Church is now reconsidering. But the priest points out that preparing for First Communion traditionally involves taking part in the sacrament of reconciliation and confessing one’s sins to a priest.

Maybe the prospect of a second-grader confessing his sins seems ludicrous to you.

Maybe you’re surprised to learn there is a “benchmark” for receiving communion.

Or maybe you’ve been around churches long enough to realize that, for all of our boasts of grace and faith, there actually are lots of invisible “benchmarks” — unspoken requirements, moral measuring rods, cultural and doctrinal hurdles to be jumped — in order to pass muster for any number of things, from communion and baptism to membership or singing in the choir.

In those churches, excluding a little boy from communion makes perfect sense because most (not all!) Christian traditions begin with the presumption that we are, by default, separated from God. St. Augustine’s medieval doctrine of original sin (which, I repeat, is not embraced by all Christian traditions) insists that all of us are sinners from birth, sinners by nature, and sinners who deserve eternal punishment.

This theological presumption breeds exclusion, the kind of exclusion suffered by Anthony and many others who don’t fit in. It creates a deep divide between “insiders” and “outsiders.” Between those who are accepted by God and those who are rejected. Between those who are going to heaven and those who are going to hell. We have to do something — say a prayer, or get baptized — to cross that gulf. And if you haven’t met the “benchmark” of our church, then you are not one of us. You are one of them.

“My heart shattered,” recalled Anthony’s mother. “My first thought was, how do you take a child who was one of God’s children and say that he is not good enough, basically, to be making the sacrament?”

What if the sacraments are not about being “good enough”? What if Anthony … and all of us … are already good enough? Already loved and accepted by God? Already, in the words of Anthony’s mother, “one of God’s children”?

We’ve missed the point. Sacraments are available to everyone, because everyone shares a deep spiritual need to experience the divine. Sacraments (and other expressions of faith) constitute a tangible bridge to spiritual reality, a means to connect our physical selves to an immaterial reality. As my pastor makes the sign of a cross on my forehead on Ash Wednesday, dust and deity are drawn together.

Sacraments are an entry, not a barrier, to relationship with God. Sacraments are a welcome, not a litmus test.

Yes, we are all infected and influenced by sin. But sin neither defines us nor determines our destiny. We have a Great Physician to heal us. A Gracious Father to forgive and embrace us.

Instead of beginning with the presumption that nobody is good enough, let’s move our starting line to the place where everybody is good enough to receive the grace and healing we all need. Instead of beginning our story with “The Fall” and “Original Sin” in the third chapter of Genesis, let’s begin our story with “Original Blessing” and “Good Creation” in the very first chapter of Genesis.

I’m going to get biblical on you now, but in a good way.

Romans 5:15–21 (ESV):

“But the free gift is not like the trespass. For if many died through one man’s trespass, much more have the grace of God and the free gift by the grace of that one man Jesus Christ abounded for many. And the free gift is not like the result of that one man’s sin. For the judgment following one trespass brought condemnation, but the free gift following many trespasses brought justification. For if, because of one man’s trespass, death reigned through that one man, much more will those who receive the abundance of grace and the free gift of righteousness reign in life through the one man Jesus Christ.

“Therefore, as one trespass led to condemnation for all men, so one act of righteousness leads to justification and life for all men. For as by the one man’s disobedience the many were made sinners, so by the one man’s obedience the many will be made righteous. Now the law came in to increase the trespass, but where sin increased, grace abounded all the more, so that, as sin reigned in death, grace also might reign through righteousness leading to eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

In my Bible, I actually circled the words “much more” and “abounded” (or “abundance”) each time they appear in this passage. Three times in the space of six verses, the Apostle Paul insists that the gift of salvation is “much more” than the trespass of Adam. Three times, Paul emphasizes that grace “abounded” beyond the curse of death.

Yes, sin and death are real. “Death has spread to all men,” writes Paul, “because all sinned.” Glance at the news on any given day to confirm this harsh reality. But that’s not the end of the story, and it’s not even the main point of the story. Paul’s point isn’t just that sin is prevalent or that death is certain. The point of this passage is that God in Christ has overcome sin and death. And not just overcome, but “much more” and “abounded.”

Yes, “many died through one man’s trespass.” But, “much more have the grace of God and the free gift by the grace of that one man Jesus Christ abounded for many.”

Yes, “death reigned through that one man (Adam).” But, “much more will those who receive the abundance of grace and the free gift of righteousness reign in life through the one man Jesus Christ.”

Yes, “sin increased.” But, “grace abounded all the more.”

Yes, “sin reigned in death.” But, “grace … reign(s) through righteousness leading to eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

Grace outweighs and overturns sin. Life conquers death. It’s not even close — grace and life “abounds … much more” than sin and death.

Imagine an avalanche of grace burying sin beneath its overwhelming crush. Imagine a tidal wave of life rolling over death with unstoppable fury, drowning death in its churning depths. Imagine grace and life as a tornado that demolishes sin and death, shattering the power of evil into broken, impotent fragments that are swept away into oblivion. An avalanche, a tidal wave, a tornado …

But even that imagery falls short. Grace and life do not “merely” eradicate sin and death, the way a tidal wave might leave a once-luxurious beach stripped bare and empty, or the way a tornado might leave a neighborhood flat and lifeless. God does not “merely” wipe the slate clean. That would be good news. The gospel is actually even better news!

This redemption leaves something more glorious in its wake. It is not just a housecleaning, but a total restoration, a rebuilding, a renovation. We are not just surviving; we are reigning in life.

The good news of the gospel is even better than the news that Christ’s sacrificial death turns back the clock, that the cross pushes creation’s reset button so that everything goes back to the way it was in the Garden of Eden. The gospel is far more ambitious than much of our theology. In God’s plan, the future is better than the past. The end is better than the beginning. Our hope in Christ is more glorious than our inheritance in Adam.

We’ve gotten stuck in the first part of the equation. We understand sin and death, but we haven’t fully entered into grace and life. We think that sin abounds, but scripture boldly declares that grace abounds. We think that death reigns, but scripture declares that life is reigning. There is much more grace than sin, much more life than death.

This is’t for a chosen few or a predestined elite. This is for us all.

“Condemnation for all” has become “life for all.”

“Many were made sinners” has become “many will be made righteous.”

Where sin increases, grace abounds. I suppose it’s human nature to focus on the increasing sin, instead of the abounding grace. But the message of Jesus is to repent — to change direction, to reverse course, to turn away from sin and embrace grace. Reject the dogma of division and exclusion in order to discover the gospel of love, joy, and peace.

Let’s leave the shrinking shadows of sin and death and venture into the brilliant sunshine of grace and life.

Trumpvangelicals Have Abandoned Jesus to Follow Trump

The impeached President Trump’s transactional view of politics (and business, and friendship, and religion, and … everything else) now permeates the pews of the Trumpvangelicals — the white, conservative evangelical Christians (as well as the fundamentalists and Pentecostals) who form much of his base.

What do I mean by “transactional”? Here’s an example: When former longtime Congressman John Dingle died, Trump ordered the flag at the Capital lowered to half-staff. But Trump roared in protest when Dingle’s widow, now-Congresswoman Debbie Dingle, voted in favor of impeachment. After all he did for her, Trump complained at a political rally, how dare she vote against him? She owed him! Trump even joked, as this grieving widow was spending her first Christmas alone, that her late husband may be in burning in hell.

When Christianity Today magazine published an editorial calling for Trump to be removed, an outraged Trump tweeted: “The fact is, no President has ever done what I have done for Evangelicals, or religion itself!”

Boasting aside, that’s Trump’s transactional politics: I do a favor for you, you owe a favor to me. As long as we can scratch each other’s backs, we are allies. But that relationship is based entirely on what you can do for me. And what have you done for me lately?

But Jesus is not transactional. Jesus repeatedly told his followers to serve others in ways contrary to their own self-interest … to put the needs of others ahead of their own … to live sacrificially, not transactionally.

“Whoever wants to be my disciple,” said Jesus, “Must deny themselves, and take up their cross daily, and follow me.”

Grace is not transactional. Forgiveness is not transactional. Love is not transactional. Salvation can’t be earned or owed, but only given undeservedly. The gospel is contrary to a transactional worldview.

Trumpvangelicals have abandoned the ethics of Jesus to embrace the transactional ethics of Trump.

Echoing a loud “Amen!” to Trump’s tweets after the Christianity Today editorial, his religious supporters responded, not by defending Trump’s ethics, but primarily by pointing to all the benefits they’ve received from Trump:

Abortion restrictions. Religious freedom. Conservative judges. Israel. Border security. Second Amendment.

Because Trump has delivered on these issues, Trumpvangelicals owe him their allegiance. So long as Trump advances their agenda, they refuse to criticize anything he says or does, no matter how hateful or obscene. This is transactional politics. Or, as we say these days, quid pro quo.

But Jesus wasn’t transactional.

Jesus told us to love our enemies, to do good to those who hate us. Nothing transactional about that.

Jesus told us to give freely to those who can never repay us. To feed the hungry, to care for the poor, expecting nothing in return. To care for widows and orphans, those who are sick or are strangers. Invite those to dinner who can’t reciprocate.

The ethics of Jesus are based entirely on non-transactional relationships. Relationships that cross lines of gender, nationality, race, ethnicity, and religion. The ethics of Trump’s religious followers are based on a transactional relationship.

These followers of Jesus are not following Jesus.

Jesus also said that a bad tree can’t produce good fruit. Trumpvangelicals insist that, despite his personal immorality, Trump nevertheless produces plenty of good fruit. And therefore, the tree must be protected at all costs.

Granted, Christians can’t avoid being political. I might disagree with Trumpvangelicals on some specific issues, but I don’t question their right to voice their opinion. In fact, because I’m pro-life, I may support some actions taken by the Trump administration and some positions of the Republican party. But because I’m a follower of Jesus, I must speak out when Trump (or any political leader) violates our sacred duty to care for those whom Jesus described as “the least of these.”

Christians must not adopt the secular world’s politics, which is increasingly tribal and transactional.

Politicians bring home the bacon, and voters support them at the polls. This is why Senate leader Mitch McConnell lards the budget with hundreds of millions of dollars in benefits to his home state of Kentucky in an election year. Politicians (of every party) seek to buy our votes in a system that hinges on self-interest. Trump is more crass in his self-dealing, more blatant in leveraging power for loyalty, but he is not alone. He is but an extreme example of the impulse that drives so many politicians.

Followers of Jesus have sworn allegiance to Jesus over any political leader, or political party. This obligates Jesus’ followers to live according to the pattern of Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount. This obligates Jesus’ followers to prophetically critique our leaders — including the president — against the standard set by Jesus.

This doesn’t make good politics. Christians don’t make good political allies, because their politics transcends partisanship. Their politics transcends national and ethnic lines, religious and cultural boundaries. Their politics transcends their own economic self-interest.

Christians may choose to support Trump’s policy positions when they align with the compassionate ethics of Jesus. But Christians shouldn’t sell their allegiance for 30 pieces of silver. They shouldn’t remain silent in the face of racism, or oppression, or exploitation … even when it means losing political favor or privileged status at the White House. They shouldn’t jump to defend Trump against every criticism.

Christians don’t owe personal loyalty to any political leader. Christians don’t owe personal allegiance to any political party.

The only debt we owe, the scriptures tell us, is the debt of love.

‘Trumpvangelicals’ may have gained the world, but they have lost their soul

The devil carried Jesus to a high mountain, as the Apostle Matthew tells the story, where he showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their splendor. “All of these I will give you,” the devil tempted Jesus, “if you will fall down and worship me.”

Jesus refused the devil’s sly offer with a vow to serve only God. Unfortunately, some of Jesus’ followers have not resisted as well the temptation to seize political power. They made their deal with the devil, and they are upholding their side of the bargain.

In case you feared we might grow bored during the interregnum between the House impeachment vote and the Senate trial, Christianity Today magazine came to the rescue. In a prophetic call to faithfulness, editor in chief Mark Galli urged Trump be removed from office and admonished his evangelical readers: “Remember who you are and whom you serve.”

Unrepentant evangelicals responded, mostly, by clutching ever more tightly to the kingdoms of the world. They sidled up cozily into the scaly coils of the devil’s embrace, giving in wholeheartedly to the temptation on the high mountain, and in the process, morphing from evangelicals to Trumpvangelicals.

From the responses I’ve seen over the past few days, the evangelical defense of Trump (the most secular president in my formerly evangelical lifetime) boils down to this: Trump is stacking the court with conservative judges; Trump is protecting their right to discriminate against gays and Muslims.

While Galli elevated the cause of “justice and righteousness,” evangelicals counted their mammon — the stock market and the GDP and the unemployment rate. While Galli rallied evangelicals to take seriously their witness to the gospel, they pointed to Trump’s support for Israel.

Galli decried Trump’s “immoral words and behavior” … evangelicals responded by touting his protection of the Second Amendment. Galli called out the ethical failures and criminality of the Trump administration … evangelicals responded by hailing his increased military spending. Galli condemned Trump’s corrupt conspiracy to extort another nation to dig up dirt on his political rivals … evangelicals responded by celebrating their newfound clout at the White House.

Evangelicals seem not to understand that most of these issues … the economy, Israel, gun rights, military spending, judicial appointments … are not gospel issues. They are lesser things, and have grown to become thorns choking out the good word.

Adopt a political position if you like, but don’t confuse it with your faith. This mess of political pottage is not worth selling your religious birthright to obtain.

In fairness to my evangelical brothers and sisters, much of their support is based on their conviction that Trump is (in their words) “the most pro-life president in modern history.” I, too, am pro-life. But there is more to opposing abortion than passing restrictive laws and appointing sympathetic judges. There is more to being pro-life than opposing abortion. And our endorsement of pro-life policies does not bind us to blindly endorse candidates or pledge our loyalty to their political parties.

I would still disagree, but I would be sympathetic to an evangelical argument that decried Trump’s immorality while supporting his policy positions on some specific issues. But that’s not what is happening this week, or what has been happening over the past three years.

Instead, evangelicals have surrendered their integrity by refusing to concede the legitimacy of any criticism of Trump. Evangelicals have damaged their gospel witness by viciously attacking conscientious critics (who criticize the very same things evangelicals used to criticize) as demonic, haters of America, liberal socialists who are destroying the country. Evangelicals have lost their credibility to espouse any truth at all, let alone eternal truths, by denying the facts and reality of Trump’s corruption.

Republican partisans have some excuse for their blind allegiance to Trump — they are political creatures protecting their political turf. Evangelicals don’t. Evangelicals used to be willing to stand in the public square and challenge a president’s immorality and ethical failures. Not any more.

As evangelical author and professor Alan Noble wrote recently,

“A danger of choosing the lesser of two evils is that over time the lesser evil no longer seems evil to you at all.”

Some evangelicals explained they voted for Trump because Hillary Clinton was the worse of the two candidates. Trump was the lessor of two evils. But today, they insist that Trump is not evil; indeed, he is “the chosen one,” called by God like Cyrus, beyond reproach or criticism.

The devil has gotten his due. The deal has been consummated.

Even if we grant the legitimacy of some of the evangelical supports for Trump, as Galli wrote: “None of the president’s positives can balance the moral and political danger we face under a leader of such grossly immoral character.”

They may reject Galli’s opinion, but evangelicals ought to listen to Jesus: “What shall it profit a man, to gain the world, but lose his soul?”

Or, do Blunt & Hawley believe we, their constituents, are the fools?

I’m not saying that both of Missouri’s Republican senators — Josh Hawley and Roy Blunt — are blathering idiots, ignorant of how the impeachment process is supposed to work.

I’m not saying that. What I am saying is, they are acting the fools.

Despite the fact they are co-sponsoring Sen. Lindsey Graham’s inane resolution that condemns the House impeachment inquiry, I don’t really think they are as stupid as their vote would indicate. Or as ignorant as the resolution they endorse. Or as corrupt as the president they defend.

The worse alternative, though, is that they believe their constituents are the fools.

Do Hawley and Blunt really think we aren’t smart enough to recognize such a ridiculous partisan political stunt? That we are so gullible as to swallow any of this propaganda? That we want them to be wasting their time, and our money, by engaging in such worthless grandstanding?

Do they believe we are fools? As a constituent, and a voter, and a taxpayer, I’m offended.

They apparently believe we are so blindly loyal to Trump that we don’t care whether or not he’s guilty. They apparently believe we care more about getting our tax cuts, or our conservative judges, than we do about the integrity of our elections or the health of our democracy or the rule of law. We should all be offended by this insult.

This is even dumber than those childish Republicans who barged into the hearing room last week and had pizza delivered while they chatted on their cell phones in what was supposed to be a secure room. This is even dumber than the lame resolution from Republicans in the House that got deservedly squashed earlier in the week. This is even dumber than the gobbledygook that substituted for a legal argument in the letter from the White House, pledging to obstruct the impeachment investigation.

Lindsey’s resolution makes me wonder if Blunt, Hawley, and the other co-sponsors know the difference between an investigation and a trial. Under the Constitution they all swore an oath to uphold, the House conducts an investigation and the Senate holds a trial. The Senate doesn’t get to dictate the terms of the investigation to the House, any more than the House gets to set the rules of the trial in the Senate.

What Lindsey demands — confronting the accusers, cross examining the witnesses — happens in the Senate trial, not during the House investigation. In other words, what he demands is entirely up to him and his colleagues to deliver.

For the record, the House impeachment inquiry (precisely the SAME process used by Republicans in past inquiries) includes 45 Republicans who serve on the relevant committees. Republicans AND Democrats who serve on those committees are permitted to participate in the depositions and question witnesses. Republicans AND Democrats who are not on those committees, are not permitted into the hearings. Same rules apply to all, to both parties.

These confidential hearings (because taking depositions is always confidential) will soon lead to public hearings, public testimony from these witnessses, and public transcripts of the depositions. Afterward, the full House will vote whether to impeach Trump, likely setting up a trial in the Senate.

As potential jurors in the Senate trial, it is grossly inappropriate for these Senators to be making prejudicial statements like this resolution. There’s no reason on earth — aside from crass politics — for the Senate to be prematurely weighing in on the House inquiry.

I guess it just proves that they’ve already judged the case, based on politics instead of evidence.

At last count, 50 of the 53 Republicans in the Senate had signed on as co-sponsors. A charitable explanation for this is that they need to give themselves some political cover to pacify Trump and his cultish followers.

In one sense, it doesn’t matter. As someone on Twitter commented: “You should see how many seventh graders vote for the class president candidate who promises to put cotton candy vending machines in the cafeteria. Guess what? They can brag about how they voted, but there’s NEVER ANY COTTON CANDY at the end.”

This resolution, for all its bluster, will have zero impact on the inevitable House impeachment. But it signals that the Senate has no intention of holding a fair trial, no intention of objectively examining the facts, and no intention of voting their conscience. It signals that Senators may not even be capable of doing so.

And it signals that they expect us, their constituents, to let them get away with it. If we do, we really are the fools.