Lincoln’s Second Inaugural Address

On this Independence Day at a time of extraordinary stress and division in our country, it is well-worth recalling the most profoundly theological (and gracious) address ever delivered by an American political leader at a moment that, if anything, was an even more fraught than ours. Here it is, without further commentary (or editorial corrections to the manuscript):

Transcript of President Abraham Lincoln’s Second Inaugural Address (1865)

Fellow Countrymen

At this second appearing to take the oath of the presidential office, there is less occasion for an extended address than there was at the first. Then a statement, somewhat in detail, of a course to be pursued, seemed fitting and proper. Now, at the expiration of four years, during which public declarations have been constantly called forth on every point and phase of the great contest which still absorbs the attention, and engrosses the enerergies of the nation, little that is new could be presented. The progress of our arms, upon which all else chiefly depends, is as well known to the public as to myself; and it is, I trust, reasonably satisfactory and encouraging to all. With high hope for the future, no prediction in regard to it is ventured.

On the occasion corresponding to this four years ago, all thoughts were anxiously directed to an impending civil-war. All dreaded it — all sought to avert it. While the inaugeral address was being delivered from this place, devoted altogether to saving the Union without war, insurgent agents were in the city seeking to destroy it without war — seeking to dissole the Union, and divide effects, by negotiation. Both parties deprecated war; but one of them would make war rather than let the nation survive; and the other would accept war rather than let it perish. And the war came.

One eighth of the whole population were colored slaves, not distributed generally over the Union, but localized in the Southern half part of it. These slaves constituted a peculiar and powerful interest. All knew that this interest was, somehow, the cause of the war. To strengthen, perpetuate, and extend this interest was the object for which the insurgents would rend the Union, even by war; while the government claimed no right to do more than to restrict the territorial enlargement of it. Neither party expected for the war, the magnitude, or the duration, which it has already attained. Neither anticipated that the cause of the conflict might cease with, or even before, the conflict itself should cease. Each looked for an easier triumph, and a result less fundamental and astounding. Both read the same Bible, and pray to the same God; and each invokes His aid against the other. It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God’s assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men’s faces; but let us judge not that we be not judged. The prayers of both could not be answered; that of neither has been answered fully. The Almighty has His own purposes. “Woe unto the world because of offences! for it must needs be that offences come; but woe to that man by whom the offence cometh!” If we shall suppose that American Slavery is one of those offences which, in the providence of God, must needs come, but which, having continued through His appointed time, He now wills to remove, and that He gives to both North and South, this terrible war, as the woe due to those by whom the offence came, shall we discern therein any departure from those divine attributes which the believers in a Living God always ascribe to Him? Fondly do we hope — fervently do we pray — that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue, until all the wealth piled by the bond-man’s two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash, shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said f[our] three thousand years ago, so still it must be said “the judgments of the Lord, are true and righteous altogether”

With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation’s wounds; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan — to do all which may achieve and cherish a just, and a lasting peace, among ourselves, and with all nations.

A. Lincoln

Love in the Time of COVID-19

The post that follows is longer than usual, because I wrote it as a column for the “Being Lutheran” series of Valparaiso University’s journal, The Cresset. Unfortunately (and ironically, given the article’s subject), the pandemic has compelled the University to make many fiscal cutbacks, among them the suspension of The Cresset‘s publication for at least the next two years. The journal’s editor, Heather Grennan Gary, has kindly given me permission to post the article to my blog site. Please note that the article was written over three months ago; I have not sought to update it.

There is a certain risk in writing on a topic that is dominant in the news now (late March 2020) for a publication that will not appear for at least a few months yet. Still, I shall give it a go. If what follows is by the time of its appearance (and by the grace of God) a “period piece,” so be it. I shall argue in what follows that there are still lessons to be learned and points to be taken. On the other hand, every present indication is that we are apt to be dealing with this pandemic for some considerable while. If so, I offer the following in the hopes that it may be analogous to what Baltimore Colts great Johnny Unitas said of his passes: not thrown directly to readers, but to readers where they will be when the ball gets there.

My title is, of course, adapted from the celebrated 1985 novel by Gabriel García Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera. But the impetus for my reflections comes from a non-fiction work that I just finished reading: Frank M. Snowden’s Epidemics and Society: From the Black Death to the Present. To be sure, Snowden’s “present” is 2018, so he concludes with reflections on SARS and Ebola, not COVID-19. But as I processed his account through the lens of my present, I came to see that there is much that we have failed to learn from our past. So, in George Santayana’s oft-quoted epigram, we are condemned to repeat it.

Of all the doleful chapters in Snowden’s book, the one that most caught my inner eye was his account of the successful, American-led effort to eliminate malaria on the Italian island of Sardinia in the immediate aftermath of the Second World War. In a nutshell, the campaign (and it was conceived and executed in terms of a military operation) focused on a single vector of attack: the application of copious amounts of the pesticide dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane (a.k.a. DDT). The objective was to eliminate the Anopheles labranchiae mosquito whose bites transmit the parasites Plasmodium falciparum and Plasmodium vivax that, in turn, engender malaria in humans. In ways considered comparable at the time to the Allies’ complete victory over the Axis in 1945, the war succeeded by the early 1950s.

However, as Snowden goes on to explain, there were numerous aspects in which this “victory” must be termed narrow at best and more aptly Pyrrhic.

First, the world community (led by epidemiologists at the time) learned many wrong lessons from Sardinia, beginning with the assumption that what had been done there was scalable to the point that, given enough DDT, the world could be rid of malaria, just as it was on the way to eliminating smallpox. Not so. To put the matter bluntly, Africa (where malaria to this day is most virulent) is a considerably larger island than Sardinia. It is also much more diverse as one confronts the “facts on the ground.” Scalability was only the tip of the iceberg faced by those with the hubris to imagine that Sardinia could be replicated on a continent-wide canvas—to say nothing of a worldwide one.

Along these lines, those who wrote the reports on the Sardinian campaign conflated the most obvious and important factor in the elimination of malaria (i.e., DDT) with its being the sole factor. At least two other changes corollary to the campaign played notable roles. First, the DDT had to be applied, so numerous Sardinians were hired and paid a good wage (by local standards), so that poverty and its concurrent dangers to health were reduced. Secondly, the limitation of the range of the mosquitoes and their malaria enabled more land to be cultivated. Increased food supplies (and farmers’ income therefrom) also made a difference.

Thirdly, often lost in the telling of the story was an official, Italian effort that had been underway since 1900 to eradicate malaria on Sardinia through the administration of quinine and the establishment of rural medical centers and schools to serve and teach Sardinians about the nature of malaria and how the new drug fit into its suppression. The American postwar campaign did not land on an insula rasa. Snowden notes that this earlier, more holistic effort had mixed success for a long time, but at very least it prepared Sardinian hearts and minds to support the DDT-based campaign.

As a final note by way of summary, Snowden has the integrity as an historian not even to mention what was later learned of DDT, viz., that it both wrecks the ecosystem to which it is applied and is carcinogenic in humans. Fashionable as it is these days in some circles, retroactive criticism via 20/20 hindsight can be mean and unfair. In this case, most famously, Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring did not appear until 1962. Still in all, so much the worse for the American-led Sardinian campaign against malaria.

So, to quote the rabbinic sages, “What does this teach us?” I am no scholar of public health, nor a medical researcher, so my evaluation of the technical, medical steps underway now and in the coming months must yield to those with scientific expertise. However, a humanist (yea, even a theologian) may still dare to contribute to the conversation, as I shall attempt in the points that follow.

First, we are all caught between two realities: quarantines and cordons sanitaires do help slow down the spread of disease, but they cannot stop it, regardless of how draconian a regimen is enacted. Otherwise put, national and state borders are one place to attempt to draw proverbial lines in the sand, but like the waters of the presently overfull Lake Michigan that have devastated the little beach at our home, germs have little regard for political or even natural boundaries, and once they have transgressed those borders (as they will), the most that exclusion regimens can hope for is to buy time (or, in the phrase du jour, to “flatten the curve”). The upshot is that we truly are all in this together. As Snowden put it toward the end of his chapter on Sardinia: “Malaria, like all epidemic diseases, is a crisis not of nations, but of humanity.” (Snowden, 384)

Secondly and as a corollary, while I would not go so far as to claim that an epidemic is a cultural construct (nor do I read Snowden that way), times like this do offer humanity a chance to reflect on our place in the world. Genesis 1 tells us that humanity is unique in being created in the image of God and in being delegated the responsibility of stewardship of creation. Situations like the present one remind us that we may be stewards, but we are not gods, and that, mindful of the many ways in which we humans have betrayed our trust in God’s ecology (and economy, in the classic sense of “plan”), we are very much both in creation and of creation. In fact, a favorite quotation of mine from the otherwise utterly gnostic tale of the 1999 movie The Matrix reminds us that, from a certain perspective, we have more in common with the enemy whom we now confront than we would readily concede. The following words come from “Agent Smith,” a representative of the powers that would shield humanity from reality, to “Morpheus,” a leader of those who would bring the truth to light:

“I’d like to share a revelation that I’ve had during my time here. It came to me when I tried to classify your species and I realized that you’re not actually mammals. Every mammal on this planet instinctively develops a natural equilibrium with the surrounding environment but you humans do not. You move to an area and you multiply and multiply until every natural resource is consumed and the only way you can survive is to spread to another area. There is another organism on this planet that follows the same pattern. Do you know what it is? A virus. Human beings are a disease, a cancer of this planet. You’re a plague, and we are the cure.” (The Matrix IMDb)

Reframing the present pandemic as virus versus virus ought at least to provoke our reflection on the larger picture of our place in the world, beyond present directives to “shelter in place.” Which will win out, numbers or wits? And what does it say of our self-absorption that the entire coronavirus affair, which threatens (so far as I know) only one species on Earth (i.e., the ones with the “wits”), has all but driven from our consciousness the larger threat that we have wrought to the continuation of life as we know it on this planet? The approaching “tipping point” was only, finally coming to our full, global awareness when we all got distracted.

Thirdly, if we learn nothing else from our adventure in Sardinia seventy years ago, it should be that there can never be a “magic bullet” to solve pandemics like the present one. Even if an inoculation were issued tomorrow in sufficient quantity both to cure those with the coronavirus disease and to prevent anyone else from getting infected (a contrary-to-fact conditional if ever there was—or is it “were”—one), we would simply be “kicking the can down the road” until the next go-round with another microbe. So long as those Dickensian waifs who stood concealed beneath the robe of the Ghost of Christmas Present, i.e., ignorance and want, are still alive and in our midst in quantity, humanity will not be safe (Dickens, 94-95). As of this writing, the depredations of COVID-19 have largely been felt in the northern hemisphere (where, to be sure, ignorance and want are plentiful), but the ghastly consequences of its dispersal among the peoples of the “Two-Thirds World” of the South (which is just now getting underway) beggar the imagination. Just think malaria. Or Ebola. Or HIV/AIDS.

Science fiction (which I often assigned to my students, explaining that it was really about this world) is full of stories of humanity finally (and too often temporarily) united only when an attack from outside the Earth confronts us. (I think of a work beloved by one of my children years ago, Orson Scott Card’s Ender’s Game.) Can we, even at this late date, find the will to rise above finding rolls of toilet paper for our own private stashes to make a dent in issues that really matter for the world and its people? Snowden’s concluding paragraph pulls together much from his historical recounting. He is writing of the international effort to counter Ebola in West Africa from 2014-16, but he could as well have placed the same paragraph at the end of nearly any of his chapters (or, I would argue, the chapter that we are now all writing):

“Epidemic diseases are not random events. As we have seen throughout this book, they spread along fault lines marked by environmental degradation, overpopulation, and poverty. If we wish to avoid catastrophic epidemics, it will therefore be imperative to make economic decisions that give due consideration to the public health vulnerabilities that result and to hold the people who make those decisions accountable for the foreseeable health consequences that follow. In the ancient but pertinent wisdom, salus populi suprema lex esto—public health must be the highest law—and it must override the laws of the marketplace.” (Snowden, 505)

I am neither a pessimist nor an alarmist by nature. But we could do a whole lot worse in the present circumstance than take up Martin Luther on his plan for the day before the end of the world: go plant a tree.

Works Cited:

Card, Orson Scott. Ender’s Game. NY: Tor, 1985.

Carson, Rachel. Silent Spring. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1962.

Dickens, Charles. A Christmas Carol. Orig,. London: Chapman & Hall, 1843. Citation from NY: Garden City, 1938.

Márquez, Gabriel García. Love in the Time of Cholera. Orig., El amor en los tiempos del cólera: Columbia: Oveja Negra, 1985; Eng trans.: NY: Knopf, 1988.

The Matrix IMDb: (consulted 3/24/2020).

Snowden, Frank M. Epidemics and Society: From the Black Death to the Present. New Haven: Yale, 2019.

Practicing Pauline Jujutsu

I do not claim expertise in any of the martial arts. But one that has long intrigued me (at least insofar as I understand it) is jujutsu (or jiu jitsu), first developed as an actual means of combat in samurai-era Japan. The aspect that I find most interesting is that among its fundamental principles is the application not so much of brute, offensive force, but rather the diversion of the opponent’s force of attack to his (or I suppose her) own disadvantage.

This principle came to me as I was reflecting on Paul’s argument in 1 Corinthians 8 regarding the eating of meat sacrificed to idols (see also Romans 15 and 1 Corinthians 10). As almost any commentary on 1 Corinthians notes, ancient meat markets were full of the surplus from sacrifices that had been offered at local temples of Greek (or Roman) gods to “images” (or in Greek eidōla, idols) of those gods. Paul states at the outset of his remarks that, since idols represent nothings (or no-god “gods”), there is nothing intrinsically wrong with consuming meat that may have come to market by way of such sacrifices. But he adds immediately, there may be other Christian believers who lack this knowledge, as their worldviews may still reflect a belief in the existence of the old gods. These believers Paul calls the “weak,” and their faith might be undermined to the point of loss, if they were to witness fellow Christians eating meat that had been sacrificed to idols (thereby effectively participating in idol worship in their minds). So, the only thing to do is (adapting an old burger ad slogan) to let them have it their way. Paul’s ultimate point is that love must trump knowledge for the sake of the other.

But exactly here is where the argument gets interesting for me. Given Paul’s fundamental principle (love of others must trump knowledge—truth!—that one possesses), then a corollary is that to insist on one’s own way is to place oneself among the “weak.” Who wants to do that? Here enters Paul as jujutsu sensei.

Of course, we cannot simply absolutize Paul’s argument to every disagreement. Paul is speaking here of actions that can either be done or not be done without sin (which is not to be simply conflated with error). But when we think about it, how many issues in today’s church and world do not fit this pattern?

To give a religious example, I’ll say plainly that I am not a fan of individual cups in communion. Rather, I favor a single, wiped-off common cup. Lutheran Christians believe that when we celebrate the sacrament, we should do so in as like a manner as possible to what Jesus did when he said, “Do this.” Furthermore, every biblical reference to the “cup” involved in the Supper is singular. (There are also studies regarding hygiene, but I’ll stop.) I think I’ve got “knowledge” on my side here.

My preferred compromise (at least absent a pandemic that makes the preparation and sharing of the wine in any mode problematic) is to employ a “pouring chalice”: a single cup with a pouring lip that the minister uses to pour into individual cups as people come forward. But would I insist on a common cup or even on my compromise, if it would keep people away from God’s altar? Unless I had good reason to think that the validity of the sacrament was at stake (and I do not), No. To insist on my perspective, I would have to be, in Paul’s words, “weak” or else, conversely, willing to sacrifice those who lack my “knowledge.” But love trumps knowledge.

Or how about in the secular sphere? Since Paul was addressing himself specifically to behavior among Christians, let’s start there. Take, for example, a Supreme Court case from a few years ago, Hosanna-Tabor v. EEOC. I’ve written more fully on the case elsewhere: The long and the short of it is that I think that the justices’ 8-0 vote in favor of the church’s right to choose its ministers, even at the expense of the fair employment rights of a teacher at its school, was correct as a matter of law. But I feel equally strongly that the church in question probably (i.e., based on what I know) wronged the teacher. I remain troubled that, as I see it, knowledge trumped love in her case.

There are surely a host of issues on which reasonable people, including non-Christians, may differ civilly. So, what do you think: is Pauline jujutsu more widely applicable in our nation and world?

BLM, not LWB

Yet. Still. Once again. Our nation has witnessed another of what has become an horrific sequence of vile and violent acts against black fellow-citizens. This time it was the extra-judicial killing of Mr. George Floyd by a sworn officer of the law while on duty. Among Floyd’s final words were, by an awful irony, the expression of what many African-Americans have long felt and tried to say: “I can’t breathe.”

From a certain perspective, now is a time to listen, not speak (or write). I have tried to follow that wisdom, at least by reading a great deal and attending with especial care to the “Can you hear me now?” that has at long and tragic last managed to put even the current pandemic to the side. Yet speaking (and writing) is what I do by vocation—by calling—so that to remain silent at this moment would be its own violation.

What we surely all must acknowledge by now is that this terrible incident was not an exception. Unlike what appears to have been the case in the murder of Ahmaud Arbery in Georgia, what happened to George Floyd in Minneapolis—Minneapolis!—was not a premeditated act by civilians acting as what can only with the greatest charity be called “vigilantes.” Arguably even worse, it was policemen following Standard Operating Procedure who proved deaf to the pleas of a dying man.

And with that we seem to be coming close to the root of the problem: our inability to recognize a “we” when we see a person who for any reason whatsoever doesn’t fit with the group that we de facto define as our own. Specifically, until a much larger preponderance of Americans than is now the case recognize that “Black Lives Matter” (or BLM), then repulsive acts toward those guilty of “Living While Black” (or LWB) will persist.

In other words, what our African-American brothers and sisters have been trying to say to us white folk gently for a long time is true: racism is, at its heart, a systemic issue, not merely an individual one. I accept that truth (including its implications for my own part of the problem). At the same time, I reject as unhelpful definitions of “racist” that include anyone who benefits from “white privilege” (which is quite real, but what’s unhelpful is that what’s true of all whites by definition is by definition going to be well nigh impossible to address). Systemic change will require the strategy of “how do you eat an elephant”: one bite at a time. We might well begin in the current circumstance by asking just why is it that people of color have been disproportionately affected by COVID-19 and then by strategizing what to do about that.

Finally, I feel compelled to say a word about the violence that has taken place in addition to the many peaceful expressions of discontent with the status quo. First, I have seen and read enough to be reluctant to assert that we’re talking about the same groups of people (the peaceful and the violent). (In this connection, reports of white anarchists adding to the mayhem are particularly troubling.) Second, I welcome what I have read by way of explanation of why some minorities might feel moved to violence, but I cannot accept these accounts as excuse. (I even read an essay this morning that compared recent violence to Jesus’s cleansing of the Temple. But, for starters, Jesus didn’t make off with the coins from the tables.) It has been, after all, all too many oft-minority-owned small businesses in poor neighborhoods that have borne the brunt. Then again, it should not surprise those immersed in a pandemic that sickness begets sickness.

Indeed, why can we not step back at this moment and agree that, surely as with the coronavirus, what we’re facing with racism is a public health crisis, only of vastly longer duration and with nothing approaching “herd immunity”?

A Letter to My Representatives in Congress about Events in the Holy Land

Last week, I sent the following letter to Michigan’s two senators (both Democrats) and to my congressman (a Republican). A staffer for the latter called me today to say that the congressman (Jack Bergman) found the letter well-argued and helpful; I replied by asking to be kept in the loop on what the gentleman does about it. I would respectfully ask readers of this blog to write their senators and representatives in a similar vein. A great deal of lasting mischief may occur while our attention is distracted by the coronavirus, if we do not watch carefully and speak up.

My letter:

Senator/Congressman, I am a recently-retired professor of Old Testament and Hebrew. I have therefore spent my professional life immersed in the Hebrew Scriptures and, more broadly, Judaism. I have learned much from Jewish sages ancient and modern. I am also well-aware of the long and tragic history of anti-Semitism and understand why Zionism arose to provide what the rest of the world would not–a safe haven for Jews–especially in the aftermath of the Holocaust. Furthermore, I have led five trips to Israel since 2000, in which my students have not simply seen the biblical sites, but have engaged with leaders and ordinary people, both Israeli and Palestinian.

It is in the light both of my studies and of my eyewitness experiences that I write to you now. I am frankly appalled at the failure of the present administration to maintain even the appearance of fairness in the present Israeli/Palestinian impasse. The reality is that Jews needed a state for the reasons already stated. But that state was established in 1948 at the cost of mass evictions, land seizures, and property demolitions that were contrary to international law and that have never been resolved. Moreover, since 1967 the entire “Holy Land,” including areas reserved for Palestinians since 1948, has been under Israeli occupation, and in recent years those areas have seen increasing encroachment by Israelis, both in the “separation wall” that has regularly seized land beyond the 1948 “Green Line” and in settlements.

Now an Israeli “unity government” is publicly moving toward annexation of large portions of the West Bank as part of “Greater Israel.” Palestinians are to be squeezed into isolated zones that some have rightly likened to the holes in Swiss cheese.

I am writing to urge you strongly to author and support legislation that makes it clear to the Israeli government that the United States will not recognize or support any resolution of the Israeli/Palestinian dispute that is not negotiated with and agreed to by the Palestinians themselves. The history of the State of Israel shows clearly that only the US has sufficient leverage with Israel to dissuade it from a path that is both unjust and inevitably costly to the hard-won values of their own faith and principles. Regardless of the outcome of this November’s presidential election, it is time for the United States to return to the role of good-faith mediator in this arguably most intractable of all international conflicts.

“We Have Met the Enemy, and He is Us”

So runs the most famous quotation from the comic strip “Pogo” that appeared in newspapers of my youth. Like its somewhat later contemporary “Doonesbury,” it was written on two levels, a surface level of light-hearted humor and a deeper level of often trenchant political critique. If anything, I confess that, as a young adult, I had more trouble penetrating what was going on with Walt Kelly’s animals in the swamp (Pogo and friends) than with Garry Trudeau’s send-up of campus culture at Yale in the late 1960s and early ‘70s, featuring Michael Doonesbury et alii.

Still, it is Pogo’s famous quotation that has been trolling around in my brain for the better part of a week now. Ever since we’ve been “sheltering in place,” I have been concerned about the degree to which coronavirus and COVID-19 have shoved nearly all other issues off our literal and psychological front pages. My greatest worry has been that, just as the world seemed on the verge of seriously confronting some approaching “tipping points” associated with climate change—that is, with realistic projections of dates after which our ecosystem will have been irreparably harmed by human action—that just then we all got distracted. Greta—you know, the Swedish kid—what was her last name again—what was she so exercised about?

Then, in the course of the last week or so, I’ve been reading articles in various newspapers and magazines about a remarkable phenomenon. No, climate change has not suddenly reversed itself. But some other negative epiphenomena resulting from human excess have done so. With the sudden, massive decrease in vehicle usage and industrial activity, urban skies are blue again. Streams are clear that have not been so for many a year. What irony!

I don’t mean to wax anthropomorphic about “Mother Earth” catching its breath while we’ve been staying indoors. Nor is it fair (or nice) to those who have put their lives on the line to resist the coronavirus (or who have suffered in its wake) to suggest that somehow the virus has proved a sort of symbiotic blessing with the non-human world by putting humanity out of action for a while. But it does not seem to me a stretch to recognize a moment’s pause in what Saint Paul described as “the whole creation . . . groaning” under the burden of human selfishness (Romans 8:22).

Of course, we humans tend to be slow learners, and it remains to be seen what lessons, if any, we shall collectively take from this experience. Recently, I ran across a sonnet expressive of what I hope we may avoid—or at least postpone beyond our pre-March trajectory. It was written by a friend of the nineteenth-century British romantic poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, namely, Horace Smith, in a friendly poetic contest for which Shelley wrote his famous “Ozymandias.” But it is Smith’s poem (also titled “Ozymandias”) that has left me pondering our coming choices and their consequences:

In Egypt’s sandy silence, all alone,
Stands a gigantic Leg, which far off throws
The only shadow that the Desert knows:—
“I am great OZYMANDIAS,” saith the stone,
“The King of Kings; this mighty City shows
The wonders of my hand.”— The City’s gone,—
Naught but the Leg remaining to disclose
The site of this forgotten Babylon.

We wonder,—and some Hunter may express
Wonder like ours, when thro’ the wilderness
Where London stood, holding the Wolf in chace,
He meets some fragment huge, and stops to guess
What powerful but unrecorded race
Once dwelt in that annihilated place.

“In Accordance with the Scriptures”

In the one truly ecumenical (i.e., worldwide) Christian creed, that is, the Nicene Creed, the church confesses that “on the third day [Jesus] rose again in accordance with the Scriptures.” The “Scriptures” referred to here can be none other than what Christians call the “Old Testament,” as there were no other Scriptures at the time of the first Easter. The Creed is claiming that Christ’s resurrection had been in the works, so to speak, for a very long time. Specifically, it is somehow essential for Christians to agree that the Old Testament has something to say about how we understand what was going on in the life, death, and life of Jesus.

Yet you would never know it from the Bible readings that many churches use during the Easter season. Ever since the liturgical reforms that grew out of the Second Vatican Council of the Roman Catholic Church in the mid-1960s and the concurrent liturgical renewal in many Protestant churches, the lectionary, or prescribed set of readings for Sunday worship, has belied what the Creed claims to be so important. For Lutherans, the relevant reforms were driven by the Inter-Lutheran Commission on Worship (ILCW) in the late 1960s and included the development of a three-year series of readings, centered largely on the three Synoptic Gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke) to replace the one-year cycle that had prevailed heretofore. In many respects, this change was, in my fallible opinion, a wholesome one. It exposed the “person in the pew” to a much larger portion of the Bible than was possible with a one-year series. But I have always taken strong exception to one major decision: during the Easter season (that is, Easter through Pentecost, fifty days later) readings from the New Testament book of the Acts of the Apostles are designated as the “First Reading,” replacing what is, for the rest of the year, a selection from the Old Testament. That is, during Christianity’s holiest and most celebratory season, the Old Testament is discretely pushed aside.

This decision was not without reason. Those who designed the three-year lectionary were trying to make the point that Easter marks a decisive moment in the dealings of God with humanity. If Easter be considered a rock dropped in the pond of human history, then the subsequent development of the church as ripples in human affairs is best considered a direct consequence of Easter’s transformation of Death’s wall into a door to fuller Life. This story is most fully told, at least within the Christian Bible, in the book of Acts.

But still I think it was a mistake. First, it can only contribute to an ongoing Christian problem, known by the fifty-cent term “supersessionism,” that is, the idea that, in the plan of God, Christians have replaced Jews as God’s chosen people. The horrific history of the treatment of Jews over the centuries of Christian predominance in the West need not be spelled out, I trust. Moreover, supersessionism is not even a necessary element of either biblical teaching or the Christian faith. See Romans 9-11 and the decree of the Second Vatican Council Nostra Aetate for details.

But secondly and arguably even worse, the omission of Old Testament readings from the Easter season ignores the claims of the core Christian creed, as noted above. Christians who confess the Nicene Creed without a second thought really need to ask, in what sense was Jesus’s resurrection “in accordance with the [Old Testament] Scriptures”? It’s not an easy question to answer. Nowhere does the Old Testament explicitly state that the Messiah (or Christ) will be killed OR be raised on the third day. Rather, living with the biblical witness over a lifetime, as I have been privileged to do, can lead one to a realization that, over the history of his people, Israel, God developed a modus operandi—a way of operating—that consistently leads to God’s bringing greater good out of evil than would have happened without the evil (see Genesis 50:20), indeed, that it is God’s habit to bring life out of death.

That is at least the claim that I am making in a five-week series of adult education conversations that I shall be leading during the present Easter season. Given present realities, those conversations are happening via ZOOM meetings, hosted by the president of Feast of Victory Lutheran Church in Acme, Michigan, where I am a member and my wife serves as pastor. Last Sunday, we talked about “Easter as Exodus,” with a focus on Exodus 14-15. This coming Sunday, we’ll look at “Easter in Jonah” (see Matthew 12:38-42 for why). If you’re interested in participating, send your name and e-mail to You’re welcome.

“Wherefore Ye Must Needs Be Subject”

The pastor who saw to my confirmation instruction was not a sadist. But he did decide that, over and above requiring me to memorize the “six chief parts” of Luther’s Small Catechism (as was required of my classmates), I was also to learn by heart the “Table of Duties” appended to the work. This “Table” consists of a long collection of biblical passages, organized by various human vocations (a key Lutheran concept), including “Of Civil Government” and “Of Subjects.”

Since the edition of the Small Catechism that I was using included its biblical citations from the King James Version of the Bible, there were a few instances of archaic language included. One that remains prominent in my mind to this day from “Of Subjects” is a quotation from Romans 13:5-7 (check it out in a more recent translation, if this makes no sense):

“Wherefore ye must needs be subject, not only for wrath, but also for conscience’ sake. For, for this cause pay ye tribute also; for they are God’s ministers, attending continually upon this very thing. Render therefore to all their dues: tribute to whom tribute is due; custom, to whom custom; fear, to whom fear; honor, to whom honor.”

This quotation came to mind recently, as I read through a Facebook exchange, in which some held what I recognized as a common, traditional Lutheran position: that whatever the faults of the present administration in Washington, the current president’s presence in office is “ordained by God” and must be respected as such. The most commonly cited text is Romans 13:1-7, although also noted is 1 Peter 2:13-17, especially v. 13: “For the Lord’s sake accept the authority of every human institution.” The arguments to the contrary were utterly predictable: how about Hitler? The counterarguments to the contrary arguments were also utterly predictable: Hitler’s office was ordained by God, although God was not responsible for what Hitler made of it.

I confess that I grow tired of theological debates in the form of Japanese Kabuki theater, that is, rehashes of age-old arguments and “proofs” for them. I have my own opinions regarding the performance of President Trump and his associates, but such is not my present focus. Rather, I resist the attempt of some to privilege selected biblical passages that advocate for the assumption of divine support for the current powers-that-be (at least if one agrees with them), above all Romans 13 as often read by Lutherans.

The fact is that there are varied voices within the Christian Bible with respect to human authority. Traditional interpretations are correct that there is what I shall term a “historical” point of view, not merely in Romans 13 and 1 Peter, but also in the Old Testament, where Israel’s kings are “God’s anointed” and then especially in the prophet Isaiah, who identifies current, earthly powers as temporary devices under the sovereignty of God. Isaiah speaks of Assyria as “the rod of my anger” in judging Israel in Isa 10:5. Then Babylon serves a similar role (Isa 39:6). Then Persia, specifically in the person of “my messiah” Cyrus, fits the bill (Isa 45:1). The powers of any given time are but tools in the hands of God.

But there is another perspective that is equally biblical. Call it the “apocalyptic” view. Found especially in Ezekiel, Daniel, and Revelation, this vantage holds that all earthly rulers are agents of evil. All will have their time, but at a time and place of God’s choosing, all will be judged and overthrown. In their place, God will establish his direct rule and reign.

The “apocalyptic” perspective clearly emerged at times of persecution and peril for God’s people: the Babylonian exile in the 500s BC, the Seleucid attempts at Hellenization of the Jews in the 100s BC, and the Roman cult of the emperor as the “patriotism” of its day in the first through third centuries AD. The latter is seen above all in the final book of the Christian canon, which obviously (albeit in code) identifies Rome and its emperor as emblematic of Evil (hint: the Hebrew letters that spell out “Caesar Nero” add up to 666!). The message to God’s oppressed: “Be thou faithful unto death, and I shall give thee the crown of life” (2:10, again using the King James Version).

Moreover, New Testament scholars are increasingly finding anti-imperial voices all over the place. Working from the perspective of what has come to be called “Empire Studies,” such scholars have identified numerous places, especially in the gospels, that call for resistance to, if not replacement of, the powers-that-be with the Kingdom of God. To cite but one example, read the Passion Narrative of John with care: note that time and again, the trial and execution of Jesus are presented as the coronation of a new emperor. Jesus is in charge throughout, and the imperial Roman governor, Pilate, is but his unwitting lackey. Thus, when Pilate famously tells the crowd, “Ecce homo” (“Behold the man”) in John 19:5, he is but quoting the Greek translation of Samuel’s words by which he presented Saul to Israel as their God-appointed king over a thousand years earlier (1 Sam 12:13 LXX).

So which applies to us at this moment? Much hangs on how one answers this question. There is no question that “Christendom” as a cultural phenomenon that established Christianity as the cultural (if not legal) default in the West since the fourth century of our era (under Constantine) is no longer the norm. But there are some who continue to speak of a “Christian America” as an entity to be preserved against enemies within and without.

Yet the Bible itself allows another point of view: in its most extreme form, that all human powers are expressions of evil, opposed to God. For what it is worth, none among us have advocated for this model so consistently as the Jehovah’s Witnesses.

So which is it to be? As a Lutheran, my theological genes incline me toward both/and, rather than either/or. But what does both/and look like? Perhaps this: governmental authority is indeed part of God’s design for human existence, as a curb against the chaos of each against all. As such, it deserves our support in principle. At the same time, it is inevitable that specific instances of governmental authority will fall short of the God-pleasing and may, in fact, on the whole tend away from what St. Augustine termed “the City of God.” The upshot is that the Christian must remain fully engaged in citizenship and governance, but always as what the British call “the loyal opposition.” That is, the best we can hope for is imperfection or even the lesser-of-evils, always subject to critique from the perspective of the Kingdom of God (and with the upfront acknowledgment that such a critique, in turn, is offered by imperfect observers).

That’s not a ringing endorsement of politics, and I’d hope for better from us all and specifically from those called to that vocation. But it may also be cold-eyed reality in anno Domini 2020.

Trudging through the Triduum

Well, OK, the title is only funny if you pronounce the last word as I was taught: TRI-djoo-oom. But seriously, it’s going to be a different kind of journey for us all this year. The Great Three Days (or “Triduum”) that lie at the heart of the Christian Year usually offer the opportunity for God’s people to gather and to walk with Jesus and with one another from the Upper Room to Skull Hill to the Empty Tomb, that is, to reprise the core events of the faith. But not this year. In anno Domini 2020 we shall do so via technology, if at all.

At the moment, my thoughts are focused most fully on the first of the three days, Maundy Thursday, since I have been asked to offer the homily for the congregation that my wife serves as pastor. I checked my sermon file (that’s the “barrel” for those in the trade), and found, as I expected, sermons mostly on the Old Testament lesson from Exodus 12, where God instructs Moses and Aaron on the particulars of the Passover meal that his people are to observe for all generations. One sermon, in fact, from very early in my ministry was offered on a Maundy Thursday when I had first led the congregation through a Passover seder meal (taken almost word-for-word from Jewish sources, as I am not a fan of Christianized seders). The sermon was set at the beginning of the service and made a deliberate pivot from the meal of the Old Covenant (the Passover) to that of the New (the Eucharist that Jesus first established at a Passover seder). My focus was on similarities, not differences, in an attempt to lead the good folk of Cheshire Lutheran Church in Connecticut, where I served as assistant pastor during my doctoral studies in Old Testament, to recognize the deep roots of the Christian faith in both testaments (and, not incidentally, to see our immense debt to our older siblings, the Jews, of whom Jesus was one for his entire life).

But what is to say on a Maundy Thursday when we shall not be sharing The Meal? I shall digress but for a moment and say that, in my fallible opinion, attempts at a technology-mediated “virtual communion” being offered these days by some Christian congregations are a non-starter for me. I have no interest in picking a fight. In fact, my main objection lies not on theological grounds but on historical ones: most of the points that I have heard offered in favor of the practice (by which everyone on the ZOOM call or whatever shares bread and wine—or some other food and drink—after the pastor’s online consecration) smack of what historians call “presentism,” the belief that we live in a time unique in human history that requires, in turn, interventions from scratch. Hard as it is for a Boomer to admit that he does not live in a time like no other, not so: there have indeed been times when Christ’s people have had to do without the Eucharist for awhile. Enough said.

So what’s to say this Thursday? It is worth noting that the prescribed Gospel lesson is from John, the only one of the four gospels that does not feature a “Last Supper,” because, by John’s reckoning, Passover that year began on Friday night, not Thursday night (as in the other three gospels). Permit me, please, to pass over (as it were) that discrepancy in silence. What John does make a great deal of is two points. First, he recounts Jesus’s presentation of a “new commandment” (or mandatum novum in Latin—the source of our “Maundy”), that his disciples should love one another. Second, he explicitly reaches beyond those gathered that night to later generations, as Jesus prays “not only on behalf of these [present there with him], but also on behalf of those who will believe in me through their word [i.e., all later generations of Christians]” (John 17:20).

The bottom line is that it is no act of theological acrobatics to affirm that we today (and Christians of all ages and places) were present in a way more true than historical in the Upper Room that night—in the mind of Christ. The Gospel according to John says so. At this moment, in a way more real than literal, we receive together the New Commandment directly from Jesus’s lips. At this moment, when love requires that we remain apart, we are called to serve others. If we cannot touch and wash others’ feet (as Jesus did to model what he meant that night), we can do what we can do. And for that purpose, all our technological toys are fair game, say I.

With Passion

Words fascinate me. For one thing, they are the tools of my trade as a teacher/scholar of theology. I have always been attracted to etymologies, homonyms, and, yes, puns. The latter delight finally led my daughter to admonish our family: “Don’t even groan. It just encourages him.”

Of particular interest to me are words that have come to mean both what they mean, as it were, and also the opposite. Take, for example, the verb “to stone.” It can mean to apply stones, sometimes with considerable force (as in the method of execution prescribed in some biblical passages). But it can also mean to remove stones, as in the somewhat old-fashioned, but still-used sense of taking the pit out of a piece of fruit. Or there is “to cleave,” whether it means to divide (as with a “cleaver”) or to cling to (as in the King James Version [KJV] of Genesis 2:24: “Therefore a man shall leave his father and his mother and cleave to his wife . . .”). One that I actually used as the organizing device in a sermon on Luke’s Parable of the Pharisee and the Publican was the development of the verb “to prevent.” Originally, it meant to come before someone, from the Latin prae (before) + venire (to come), as in Psalm 88:13 (KJV again): “In the morning shall my prayer prevent thee.” Yet now it means very nearly the opposite, to stop a meeting (like a collision) that might otherwise occur. (My point, in a nutshell, was that each man “prevented” God, but in a different way: one pushing him to the side; the other drawing near to him.)

I got to mulling on this small collection as I began thinking about this coming Sunday. Traditionally known as Palm Sunday, many Christian churches now begin with the story of Jesus’s triumphant entry into Jerusalem, but then pivot to hear the story of his suffering and death that happened at the end of the week. So, it is also now known in those churches as Passion Sunday.

“Passion” is another one of those strange words. It comes from the Latin (and ultimately the Greek) meaning to suffer or, more literally yet, to receive suffering (think “passive”). But today we use it far more often in the sense of what we most love or aspire to, often in a sexual sense. For several years, the motto of the Lyric Opera in Chicago was “Long Live Passion,” and, despite the often gruesome endings of their performances, I doubt that the marketing department had suffering in mind. Nor do guidance counselors or faculty advisors have such a focus, when they ask students, “What is your passion?”

Yet these two senses of “passion” do come together in the events described at the end of all four New Testament Gospels. There is plenty of suffering at the climax of each: as one New Testament scholar put it, “To state the matter somewhat provocatively, one could call the Gospels passion narratives with extended introductions.” Yet in, with, and under all of the suffering is the utter determination of Jesus to see his mission through to the end. He is, in the most modern sense of the word, “passionate” to set things right between God and humanity.

As distracted as I am (and likely many others are) these days with all manner of concerns about things present and yet to come, it gladdens me to know that we have a God who is “passionate” about each and all of us in the senses both of cost and goal.