One of the salient political aspects of the early church is that they claimed allegiance to a king who was not there except by dint of having his spirit poured out on all his followers. The claims of kingship are deferred in the ascension and then disbursed at Pentecost in a way that is — if you’re the powers that be — unsettling and anarchic.

The Romans called the early Jesus followers “atheists” for their refusal to sacrifice to the Roman Gods but, given the political significance of the imperial cult, “anarchist” is not too far off the mark. “Christarchist” works but it comes to much the same thing: where is this Christ to whom we profess our loyalty? Where do we find him except in our midst as we make decisions together, or in the face of the stranger or the enemy? It is, in the logic of the market or the state, one hell of a way to run a railroad.

If Christ’s is an upside-down kingdom, Christians have managed in many cases to keep the language of inversion while turning most of it right-side up again. We’ll toss out phrases like “servant leadership” much faster than we’ll grab a towel and basin. We’ll invoke authoritarian structure as a hedge against chaos by calling it accountability. Even some of us who claim a pacifist ethics do so partially by acquiescing to the idea of an eschatological violence. “Vengeance is mine; I will repay”, says the Lord, and we assume this means that we can love our enemies because God will smite them if need be — if not in this life then in the next. John Dominic Crossan makes a distinction between distributive justice, which is the purview of the church, and retributive justice, which God reserves for himself.

Logically, it’s a neat package. If God wants to use the Allied forces to stop Hitler (just as he might have used the Assyrians or the Babylonians or even the Romans to accomplish his purposes), that’s his prerogative. Such a reading of history is, I think, available to us (more outlandish readings have certainly been offered). We cannot claim with definitude that God has acted in this way over and against the normal interplay of powers against one another, but it is possible. And it doesn’t justify Christian involvement in armed conflict, because we are called to a different ethics of the kingdom. We are living God’s future, as Miroslav Volf puts it, but God is still God of the nations, lord of the saeculum. How God orders the powers is none of our business. It allows us to maintain the integrity of divine sovereignty while embracing the ethical ramifications of the lordship of Jesus. On a certain level, this works very nicely.

This has become, however, less and less satisfying to me. I’ll be honest: I’ve struggled with claims of Jesus’ divinity, not because I’m metaphysically challenged but because I can’t quite reconcile Christos Pantocrator with the man on the cross. I’ve been leery of substitutionary atonement, not because that kind of forensic language is absent from the New Testament witness, but because it’s one of many metaphors and our focus on it to the exclusion of other metaphors seems to aid and abet our cultural narcissism: Jesus died for me, me, ME. Isn’t he grand?

But what if those claims of Jesus as YHWH tell us less about Jesus than they do about the true nature of YHWH? Much of the way Jesus’ story is narrated is paralleled in the wider culture of the time (Mithraism and all that) and some critical scholarship suggests that these claims were made of Jesus in order to present him as a player on the cosmic scene. I don’t know that we need to be afraid of this idea, but I am wondering if this doesn’t miss the point; what if these are, like so much else about Jesus, actually inversions?

The various and varied claims made of Jesus, whether they parallel ideas from Jewish messianism or the imperial cult or mystery religions, mean something very different when they are applied to someone who willingly suffered crucifixion. Maybe we miss the point by embracing a politically subversive Jesus but hold in reserve an ass-kicking apocalyptic Jesus who can beat up Mark Driscoll.

What if part of the beauty, even the utter necessity of substitionary atonement, is that God, who reserves the right of retribution, has already rendered judgment — meaning that we love our enemy not simply because God has forgiven us (when we were still enemies) but because, in the Cross, God has already forgiven our enemies? True, it seems a bit scandalous — talk about your foolishness to the Greeks and stumbling block to the Jews — and it plays fast and loose with our whole sense of justice. Do we dare go that far?

In the passion narratives, Jesus is given a purple robe, and a crown of thorns, and is hailed “King of the Jews.” We see this as sadly ironic, of course; those poor saps, they didn’t know that Jesus really is the King not only of the Jews, but the whole world. Too bad for them when he comes in his glory. But what if the irony goes deeper? What if this plays out the way it does because the early believers recognized the passion not as an ironic prelude to Jesus’ true lordship, but as the example par excellence of exactly what that lordship looked like? That the christological scandal is not that we crucified God but that we claim as God the one whom we crucified? That the passion is not something that obfuscated Jesus’ true identity but unveiled God’s?

It would mean that the resurrection, ascension, and cosmic reign of Christ are not something from which the passion is a tragic but necessary detour, but are instead a way of affirming the Cross, and the Way of the Cross, as the realpolitik of the Gospel:

Here is your king.

Author Bio:: Ted Troxell is the only janitor at Central Michigan University who is also an adjunct instructor.

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I recently heard a sermon that used the story of Achan in Joshua 7 as a platform to rail against “sin in the camp”, a phrase that always makes me think of Woody from Toy Story saying “there’s a snake in my boot.” The preacher did not have some particular sin in mind, at least not that he was willing to mention, just some general hunch that there might be some sinning going on, and we’d better knock it off or (I suppose) the next time we try to annihilate a city we might meet with undue bloodshed. I’m not sure what he was getting at. I think I dozed off.

The problem with this kind of reading is that it plays too easily into a scapegoating narrative. It is essentially Pharasaical, concerned with ritual purity and the elimination of sinners so that God can bless us. It also somewhat Puritan, in that the Puritans were fond of reading theocratic principles off the surface of the OT stories in much the same way. For American Christians, the apple doesn’t fall too far from that tree.

The basic elements of the story are rather brutal ones from which to extrapolate community values. Jericho is put under the ban, meaning that every living thing was to be put to death — the young and old, male and female, human and non-human. Everything. In essence, the whole of Jericho (with the exception of Rahab and her family) was to be made a sacrifice unto the Lord. (A lovely sentiment, really.) In the midst of this bloodshed, Achan commits the rather understandable, even practical, sin of trying to make off with some of the forbidden plunder, and for his trouble he is met with execution, not only for himself but for his entire family, in an extension of the logic of sacrifice.

So what do we do with a story like this? The “sin in the camp” reading is available and obvious, and it would be difficult to argue against such a warning as the main impetus of the story. There are consequences for disobedience, and we would be remiss to deny or undermine this. Nor would we want to downplay the importance of moral integrity in communities of faith. Paul himself advocates the expulsion of those who take liberties with their freedom in Christ.

One thing we can do is recognize the socio-historical contingency of a story like this. Without invoking a hardcore dispensationalism on one hand or falling into Marcionism on the other, we can recognize that the the time and place from which this story comes is different than our own and is not informed by the revelation of Jesus. If we are going to hear the voice God, we need to remember it comes to us with an accent. We can read this story through the lens of Jesus in a way that the story’s tellers and preservers could not.

We can also explore ways in which the Cross renders it unavailable for a Constantinian reading that justifies conquest or witch-hunt pursuits of “sin in the camp”. We might start with the meaning of the ban itself, which determined that nothing was to be left alive, and nothing of use was to be taken away from the enterprise, except the land itself. As mentioned earlier, this was essentially a sacrifice to YHWH, an act of trust in the Lord for provision, much in the way that certain sacrifices were to be wholly consumed by fire and thus not available for food.

To use the conquest of Canaan as justification for Christian participation in armed conflict (or worse, as a justification of American “manifest destiny“), the burden of proof would seem to lie in demonstrating that YHWH is directly commanding the action, that no plunder is to be taken, and that the Cross is somehow not the end of sacrifice. The only legitimate extension of the logic of sacrifice admitted by the early church was martyrdom, not conquest (and we might add that being killed in the process of conquest is not martyrdom in any way that someone like Paul would have recognized).

Moreover, if any given battle hinges on the obedience of the people irrespective of their might or military acumen, then the battle indeed belongs to the Lord. Here, too, we can point to the Cross as God’s definitive answer as to the viability of such a response. After the Cross, we are to offer our bodies as living sacrifices, but the bodies of others are not available for that purpose. Caesar’s answer to the problem of the enemy was to crucify the enemy. Jesus’ response to the problem of the enemy — God’s final solution — was to be crucified. When the early martyrs faced the sword as preferable to the betrayal of their faith, they participated in the Cross. When later Christians took up the sword as preferable to self-surrender, they made a mockery of the Cross.

As for “sin the camp”, it is true that moral integrity is important in the community. For Paul, however, the purpose of “church discipline” was restoration, not punishment, and certainly not ritual purity as a hedge against ill fortune for the group. And it is true that there are consequences for disobedience. Curiously, however, most of the New Testament seems much more concerned with the consequences of obedience. We have heard it said that we must rid ourselves of sin in the camp so that God might bless us, but Jesus says to us, “Take up your cross and follow me.” It’s not that we ought to uncritically tolerate moral laxity among believers, it’s just that when we drag the infidel outside the gates for a good stoning, we find Jesus already there, saying things like “it is finished” and “father forgive them” and “let whoever is without sin cast the first stone”.

And we realize that as much as Jesus stands there in our place (a favorite trope in evangelicalism), he stands there as well in the place of the sinner whom we would stone for the sake of purity and the enemy whom we would destroy in the name of conquest.

Author Bio:: Ted Troxell is a PhD student at Michigan State researching Christian radicalism. He is also very grateful for the warm welcome into the JM community.

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The story of Joseph is usually told as a hero tale, and in general it wants to be read that way. We might interrogate it for more meaning — there might be some significance to the roles of the other brothers in light of the later tribal relations that probably color the telling of the story — but the ‘hero tale’ designation seems to hold. Joseph is marked as a kind of seer, lauded for his moral certitude in the face of temptation and his placid acceptance of his fate. The story, like many such stories, has an ironic twist at the end where everything predicted comes to pass in an unexpected way and everyone lives happily ever after.

Except they don’t. The opening lines of Exodus add another twist, a dark and almost deconstructive turn that throws a wrench in our expectations and shatters the fairy-tale ending. Without getting into speculations about who redacted what and when, Exodus 1:8 unsettles the usual reading of Joseph’s story: “Now a new king arose over Egypt, who did not know Joseph.” This sets the stage for YHWH to deliver and claim the Hebrew people in a formative act of liberation; in some ways, the import of Joseph’s story is that it gets them to Egypt. But it is more than a narrative device or literary convention. Read in light of verse 8’s unsettling revelation, we can see that Joseph, though he meant well, leveraged the short-term survival of his family against the future of his people.

It is impossible to say what Joseph should have done — the story has to end the way it does, for any number of reasons — but his acceptance of privilege under Pharaoh, this sidling up to power that he uses to his family’s advantage (and understandably so), results in betrayal, in tragic loss, becoming the dark ground against which the figure of redemption and liberation will be defined. All it takes for Joseph’s collusion with the superpower of his day to turn ugly is a regime change, which is not so much a random stroke of bad luck as an inevitable part of life in empire.

In a way, we should see this coming. Joseph’s life is full of circumstances wherein some sort of privileged status turns around to bite him. He rises to prominence in Potiphar’s household in a sub-plot that often serves to underscore a Protestant work ethic: be diligent, and you might just be put in charge of the whole operation. On the dark side, you might also get seduced by the boss’s wife and thrown in jail. Or the privileged status — the technicolor dreamcoat and all that — that raises the ire of his brothers and lands him in slavery to begin with. Sit with this thread long enough and you begin to wonder if maybe if Joseph isn’t really a tragic figure, who never quite learns. The happily-ever-after ending is not just subverted by the opening lines of Exodus, it’s unmasked as false to begin with.

This thread is present in other parts of Genesis as well. Abraham is called out of Ur of the Chaldees, which have been Sumeria and thus the height of civilization at the time. Regardless, Abraham is called out of a settled existence to become a nomad, wandering in the direction of God. Along the way, none of his compromises with the powers-that-be seem to turn out well; he does much better when he simply trusts God for provision and resists brokering deals for protection or support. The Babel narrative is one in which an attempt at civilizational grandeur is thwarted in favor of a diasporic existence, quite possibly an allegory of exile, as is the creation narrative itself. We don’t have time to go into it here, but whether you read covenant and exile as a recapitulation of creation and fall, or creation and fall as a redactionary foreshadowing of what YHWH’s children would learn in exile, the structural similarity is striking.

The life and ministry of Jesus, the message of Jesus and the message that is Jesus, confirms what Yoder calls the “Jeremiac turn”: that the life of diaspora in exile is not an unfortunate cul-de-sac but a new way of being God’s people. A way that eschews power and privilege, seeking solidarity with those for whom such formulations are out of reach. A way that identifies with the “least of these”, knowing that there is always a base of the lowly and the meek on whose backs the burden of injustice rests. A way that seeks to tabernacle in the negative space of empire.

The story of Joseph, read through the lens of this new way, becomes a cautionary tale: when we sidle up to power, when we seek to claim for ourselves the benefits of privilege, or fail to interrogate it even when it seems to be providential, we lose something precious. Sooner or later, the situation will turn and we will stand, as we always do, in need of redemption.

Author Bio:: Ted Troxell is a PhD student at Michigan State University researching Christian radicalism.

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Apparently “radical” Christians are not the only ones getting in on the manifesto love. A committee headed up by Os Guinness has recently published a document entitled An Evangelical Manifesto. With the emphasis being on the “An” (because one has to have a disclaimer on anything one writes now a days), the focus of the document is on recovering the essence and definition of the term “Evangelical,” particularly in the public square. So far the watchdog bloggers have been kind, but it is probably only a matter of time before Os and company get grouped in with Marx and the Unabomber for using the word manifesto.

Despite the unwanted baggage the term “Evangelical” has picked up over the last several decades, this manifesto is a declaration that that label, if properly understood, still conveys “all-important truth.” This is the twenty first century Evangelical’s attempt at doing what John Wesley did with his sermon The Character of a Methodist: distinguish what a true Evangelical really is in light of recent public questioning and counterfeit productions. This delineation comes in three mandates, written in the first person plural:

1. We Must Reaffirm Our Identity
2. We Must Reform Our Own Behavior
3. We Must Rethink Our Place in Public Life

There is as much to love in the document as there is to loathe, and everyone will have their favorite targets. The early responders have focused on who was and was not invited to be charter signatories, and then drawing conclusions from the snubbed list as to the true intention of the manifesto. Among this crowd is Warren Smith (who wonders where the conservatives are) and the Emergent Village blog (which briefly notes that Brian McLaren, Tony Jones, and Doug Pagitt were not asked either).

Please brace yourself for my next statement…but…I actually agree with Al Mohler’s take quite a bit (wow, that felt good to get off my chest!). The prime definition of “Evangelical” given in the manifesto is the sort of lowest common denominator approach that doesn’t really say anything at all. I realize the goal is unity and consensus, but the question of “what is an Evangelical” is tied up in history that makes the whole “Evangelicals are people who simply define themselves according the ‘good news’ (from the Greek word for gospel)” a little too a-historical for me. The authors insist that while the term “Protestant” has lost its usefulness, “Evangelical” still endures. They assert that the essence of “Evangelicalism” is pre-Protestant. Am I missing something in my reading of history? Then again, Mark Noll– a Christian historian of the top shelf– signed it, so what do I know.

James K. Smith has made these connections as well and has thrown one more in there that really gets at the heart of the issue. In response to the first mandate’s identity markers, Smith writes:

“…such definitions define “Evangelical” by what evangelicals THINK and BELIEVE, rather than what they DO. That, I think, reflects just the sort of modernism that gives us evangelicalism (and fundamentalism) in the first place. In contrast, what defines Orthodoxy or Catholicism is liturgy, the practices of the faith.”

Much of the manifesto is dedicated to repenting of behavior unbecoming to a true “Evangelical,” but most of the attitudes and actions listed seem to be aimed at the more Fundamentalist side of Christianity. This leads me to believe that one major aim of the document is to place further separation between Evangelicals and those political Fundamentalists that are still getting all the press. This group of “Evangelicals” has little to do with Colorado Springs, and they want to make that clear without resorting to finger pointing. The major question that many of us should ask is whether or not this group of “Evangelicals” is simply falling into the trap of creating a Religious Left to battle the Pat Roberton’s of the world. Not to say that you are guilty by association, but Jim Wallis’ signature should be in all CAPS. He might as well have taken a few of his articles from Sojourner’s, smashed them together, added a few more devotional phrases, and Os Guinness could’ve written his bit about “civility” and taken the rest of the year off.

But as mentioned above, there are good things that need to be said of the manifesto. The document is highly Christocentric, something that has been sorely missing in Evangelical public engagement in the past few decades. The constant focus on the person and work of Jesus should make us all shout out an “Amen” or two. There is also call for constant renewal and reformation that strongly denounces any falling in love with the status quo. Of particular interests to the Jesus Manifesto crowd, coming byway the section entitled “The Way of Jesus, Not Constantine:”

“We Evangelicals trace our heritage, not to Constantine, but to the very different stance of Jesus of Nazareth. While some of us are pacifists and others are advocates of just war, we all believe that Jesus’ Good News of justice for the whole world was promoted, not by a conqueror’s power and sword, but by a suffering servant emptied of power and ready to die for the ends he came to achieve.” (18)

So what are your thoughts?

Have you read this Manifesto? Would you sign it?

Where do you place yourself in the spectrum–are you an “Evangelical?”

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How did God choose to release the Church into her calling? Pentecost. How did God start off Pentecost? By getting His Spirit to get a hold of, and control of, the tongue.

And they were all filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak with other tongues, as the Spirit gave them utterance. (Acts 2:4 NKJV)

God created the tongue as a powerful member of our body. James compares the tongue to the rudder of a ship and the bit that controls the horse (James 3:3-5). Great ships and their rudders are designed with great care, because these ships are useless if they cannot be controlled. A magnificent vessel cannot fulfill its purpose without a rudder capable of maneuvering it through every port, storm or shoal. Similarly, these great vessels require a captain at the helm capable of taking firm control of the rudder and directing it.

It is just like God to go for control of the rudder. He always goes to the core of every issue – whether it is the root of bitterness, the need to forgive or the call to be a rejoicing and thankful people in every situation. When He released His Church into the world, God started by firmly placing His hand on the helm controlling the rudder – the tongue. He sacrificed so that the Church could walk in freedom and now He directs it so that it fulfills its freedom destiny.

God loves to release blessing through things mankind considers insignificant. Paul describes God’s choice at overcoming the strong through using the “weak” (1 Cor 1:26-28). He confounded the wise by using the “foolish.” And using the “least” gift, He started His great Church – the gift of tongues (1 Cor 12:28). I believe God did this for several reasons. First, He wants us to know that He does not need our abilities nearly as much as our submitted availability. He can use anything available to Him and do spectacular things with it. Second, this encourages the weakest member within the Church. God honors and uses the least to do spectacular things. I would likely have chosen some other gift to release salvation to thousands – maybe healing, or the prophetic gift or the gift of evangelism. That would have been more “reasonable”. Third, if God can do that with the least gift, what can He do with all the spiritual gifts He has placed within you?

The tongue has one final and critical role – it is the mouthpiece of our heart’s expression.

For out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks. A good man out of the good treasure of his heart brings forth good things, and an evil man out of the evil treasure brings forth evil things. (Matt 12:34-35 NKJV)

All that lies within our soul will find its expression through the tongue. All that we treasure will find its way out through the tongue. When God controls our heart, then the tongue releases His Word for our world. If hurts, pride or ambition have a root there, then our tongue will betray that we refused to allow God inside to deal with these issues.

Pentecost is a great day to declare afresh in the Church that God controls of the rudder. He has control of our tongue – my tongue – and it speaks as “the Spirit gives utterance.”

Author Bio:: David Peacock is one of the pastors on staff at The Lighthouse Church in Kuwait. His wife Becky and two youngest children live and minister there with him.

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Ok, I’m a bit confused.

We’re not exactly poor. My wife and I have both grown up having more than enough, and we live comfortably and have very little debt (soon to be none). But as we explore what the Bible has to say about finances, we feel pulled a few different directions. In Proverbs 13 we learn that a good man has an inheritance for his children’s children; that requires some capital, long term savings or investments, and quality relationships with one’s progeny. You think about the audience for that, they had more than one child typically, so you’re not talking a small amount of money. Yet Jesus commands to “give to anyone who asks” in Matthew 5. You have a weird collision in the New Testament of couples such as Aquila & Priscilla who make their living making tents, or Lydia who has more of a ‘luxury goods’ business (sounding like the woman in Proverbs 31), but then Acts mentions how “Selling their possessions and goods, they gave to anyone as he had need.”

And how well did that work anyway? A decade or two later and Paul is taking up offerings for the church in Jerusalem, possibly due to a kind of ecclesiastic economic collapse. The blessed become the beggars? Perhaps in some perverse sense the martyrdom had an auxiliary benefit: keeping the stress on the ecclesial budget down.

Jesus had nowhere to lay his head (Matthew 8). Judas kept their money (John 12), but it never says how much, and no matter what the prosperity preachers claim, I find nothing about Jesus’ secret mansion there so I don’t think Jabez (1 Chronicles 4) helps much. Jacob’s flocks were ‘blessed’ by quasi-magical deviousness. (Genesis 30).

Jesus’ parables make things really interesting, especially for those with a capitalist or communist predisposition. He claims the kingdom of God for the poor in Luke chapter 6 and in chapter 8 feeds the crowds. At the end of chapter 9 he reiterates his lack of accommodations. His prayer in Luke 11 asks for “daily bread” but he follows it with a promise for receiving whatever you ask of God. The Pharisees are condemned for their classism and their tithe, and a heart of giving is praised even when the giver has little to give (Luke 21). Chapter 12 describes a rich fool, and Jesus recommends an almost naive approach to life’s needs; give everything away, do not save or store up on earth. He then praises shrewd investors in his parable in chapter 14, and follows that parable with another featuring a nameless rich man in hell. The rich young ruler (Luke 18) is commanded to sell all his possessions and give to the poor. A reformed tax collector gives half his possessions to the poor and reimburses those he cheated. Jesus throws the salespeople out of Jerusalem. He gives an ambivalent answer regarding taxes and ends up getting betrayed for 30 silver coins. I guess Judas was sick of stealing from an empty wallet.

Seriously though; there is a strong, recurring theme in Jesus’ life and the lives of the New Testament church that emphasizes essentially:

a) Give, abundantly, cheerfully, constantly.
b) Live very simply. (Homeless, nomadic, or communal seem to be the trends).
c) Trust God for your needs.

How does that jive with the Hebrew scriptures regarding financial wisdom, inevitably the stuff being quoted in sermons surrounding tithes, investment, budgeting and wealth creation? How does that work with Christians who were businesspeople? (a role that unlike governmental positions, temple prostitution or soldiery, was permitted) How do I figure that out when, on the one hand, I know that Jesus didn’t die for my 401(k), but I still have one?

Author Bio:: Jordan Peacock lives and works in Minnesota with his beautiful wife and daughter. When not playing with technology or music, he’s writing comic books and wrapping up a university education.

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A few months ago I e-mailed one of my pastors at my church after he gave a sermon on the Kingdom of God. As part of a long, frustrated e-mail, I wrote the following:

My biggest question is, why aren’t we seeing the progress on earth? Why haven’t the cosmic changes that Jesus’ coming brought turned into real changes on earth? I know that the Kingdom of God is a long work in progress, but why can’t I see any big concrete changes towards the Kingdom of God? I know there have been many many many little things that Christians and churches have done over the past 2000 years to make earth a little more heavenly, but it doesn’t seem like there has actually been a mass movement forward, even if it is just a little bit more forward. Instead it seems like we are in much the same place, if not in a worse, more sinful, and evil condition. Now I definitely can’t grasp the whole scope of history around the world in the past 2000 years, but it doesn’t seem like the world is moving towards peace as we are building up larger militaries, amassing nuclear weapons, and fighting over ever more dwindling resources. It doesn’t seem like we are moving towards the end of poverty as the gap between the rich and poor is growing ever larger still, and the Christians around the world have the resources to end extreme poverty on their own, yet aren’t doing it. It doesn’t seem like we are moving towards authentic loving communities as our lives become more and more individualistic and media-based. Is it getting better and I’m just not seeing it?

My longing for the Kingdom of God led to deep frustrations when I couldn’t see it coming. I wanted tangible examples of the redemption of God here on earth. Small examples wouldn’t do; I wanted to see progress towards the glorious return of Jesus, when there would be a new heaven and new earth, and all of creation would be redeemed. I believed that if the Church just got it’s act together, and we all agreed that we needed to end injustice, love our neighbor, and overthrow the Empire, we could do it. I believed that the Church could usher in the Kingdom of God through strong effort and unity.

I realize now that I started believing in the “myth of progress.”

N.T. Wright, in his book Surprised by Hope, explains the myth of progress:

“[The myth of progress is] the idea that the human project, and indeed the cosmic project, could and would continue to grow and develop, producing unlimited human improvement and marching toward a utopia…. This utopia dream is in fact a parody of the Christian vision. The kingdom of God and the kingdoms of the world come together to produce a vision of history moving forward towards its goal, a goal that will emerge from within rather than being a new gift from elsewhere. Humans can be made perfect and are indeed evolving inexorably toward that point.”

We believe this myth when we believe that the next political leader will finally solve some the world’s problems once and for all. We believe this myth when we believe medical advances will eventually rid the world of disease. We believe this myth when we believe economic growth will eventually end world poverty. We believe this myth when we believe the Church can build the Kingdom of God

When we stop believing in this myth we see that it is no longer our responsibility to build the Kingdom of God, but that doesn’t mean that we should try to slide through this life as painlessly as possible, waiting to go to heaven or until Jesus’ return. Please don’t get me wrong, we have a very real work to do here on earth, building for the Kingdom of God. We are not going to build the kingdom on our own; it will come from God as a new creation, as an act of redemption, not as the final conclusion to the progress we are making here on earth. Yet every work of grace, every work of love, justice, and compassion, is building for the kingdom, and will be part of the kingdom when it comes in full. In 1 Cor. 15, Paul speaks about the resurrection of the dead and the coming new creation, and he ends the chapter in verse 58 by saying, “Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain.” We may not be able to build the Kingdom of God on our own, nor will we slowly progress towards it, but let us be assured that our work here on earth is not in vain, that we really can build for the kingdom, with the assurance that in the end God will redeem all of creation.

I encourage you to read N.T. Wright’s Surprised by Hope to explore more of this idea.

Author Bio:: Maria currently lives in Chicago with her husband and works with teenagers. She always has more questions than answers, but is hoping to find a few more answers next year when she goes to seminary. In the mean time you can find more of her questions at www.mariadrews.wordpress.com.

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I have a friend who considers himself a “Buddhist follower of Jesus.” Orrin is a monk of sorts…shaved head and all…but of a progressive sort.

I firmly believe that he loves Jesus (the person…not just the idea) more than the average Christian. I suspect that many Christians don’t so much love Jesus as they love what he can do for them.

At one time in my life I would have said that being a Christian is all about two things: 1) Having a conversion experience and 2) believing the right things. This sort of basic understanding of Christian can easily foster a loveless relationship with Jesus Christ. And, strangely enough, can allow you to be considered a “believer of Jesus” without it being assumed that you should also be a “follower of Jesus.” In some circles, it is considered bad-theology to assume that a Christian necessarily MUST be a follower of Jesus. That, after all, is legalism. Nevermind that Jesus’ consistent message was something like “Hey, the Kingdom’s here…so follow me.”

Given my previous understanding of Christianity, my friend Orrin would be “out.” But, interestingly enough, you can be a greedy televangelist, a warmonger president, an apathetic church-goer, or a legalistic non-smoking or-drinking or-movie-watching or-dancing zealot and still be assumed, from an evangelical perspective, to be “in.”

But is being “in Christ” really about a conversion experience and right doctrine?

On the flip side, is it sufficient to say that if you appreciate Jesus and follow his example that you are “in?”

In a recent article, Brian McLaren is quoted as saying: “There are increasing numbers of Muslim followers of Jesus and Hindu followers of Jesus, and they do not want to be identified with the Christian religion…” I like how this insight recognizes that one can follow Jesus authentically without buying into a pre-packaged belief system. It is safe to assume that when the disciples were traveling with Jesus that they were, technically speaking, heretics. I doubt that they understood Jesus’ divinity, affirmed the Trinity, or recognized the universality of the Church.

Why is it that we never start where Jesus did? Instead of inviting people to become followers with us in the way of Jesus, why do we make “discipleship” about doctrinal adherence? And why do we assume that we should always push for a conversion?

What I don’t like about Brian’s quote is that it could easily encourage people to disregard Christianity or validate Hinduism or Islam (or Buddhism). But these systems aren’t the same. And I don’t even believe their cores are the same (except with, perhaps, Buddhism and Hinduism). It is also a bit fishy when folks think they can remain fundamentally within their existing paradigm and then incorporate Jesus into that paradigm. We all know that adding Jesus into our lives as-is often means that Jesus becomes the posterboy for our pre-existing values, virtues, and convictions. One doesn’t need to embrace everything about Christianity to be a follower of Jesus. But at the same time, one cannot remain as they are and be a follower of Jesus.

So, where is the balance? How do we resist the sort of thinking that equates Christianity with a conversion experience and right doctrine while, at the same time, resist the sort of thinking that equates following Jesus with adopting an ethical system (usually focusing on those ethics that we already like about Jesus)?

For that matter, what should it look like to “make disciples” in a way that affirms both the doxis and the praxis of Jesus?

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I usually write out of the themes that swirl around my brain for a while. This time is no exception.

For some period in my life I have been wondering about where I fall in this thing called “The History of the Church.” Am I a heretic? I’ve been called that. Am I progressive? Conservative? Feminist? Liberal? Anabaptist? Open-Theist? I have been called all of these and called myself all of these at various stages along the way.

Most of these classifications have served to include or exclude me from some group of people that were either preferred or not–depending on the context. These words typically refer to specific views I articulate from time to time. Sadly, I am not often known for what I do.

When I wrestle with the feeling of being a theological bastard–wondering what congregation would ever openly accept me into their community–I am struck by how askew our perspective has become. most church folks I am around want to talk about church backgrounds: “What denomination did you grow up in?” seems to be the question that reigns supreme.

Whatever happened to “you will know a tree by its fruit”?

I think it is important to articulate what I believe about Jesus, the incarnation, God, Trinity, baptism, communion, the body of Christ, Justice/justification/righteousness, and the kingdom of God. I think this is important because in talking it out, I iron out the ethics that I hope to hold as a measure of the fruit of my life. I hope to read the scriptures, the culture, my experience, and the voices of my community with the intent of letting them shape me into a follower of Jesus. In reading all these things, I try to hold Jesus and his message about the kingdom of God at the center.

Too often, these things have been left up to only a few people in the church–most of them white men, with the exception of Augustine who was African (thus the title of the post’s lack of reference to mothers). This is another reason I think theology is important. It is important for us in our rising global context to continue to articulate our faith in shifting situations and with the inclusion of a diversity of voices (on this point I am keenly aware of my status as a white man in usamerica).

So, I hang on to the importance of theology.

At the same time, I am sick of doctrines determining communities of faith. What will it take for us to congregate based on geography instead of on socio-cultural, economic, ethnic, and doctrinal sub-groups? Maybe, once we have sucked the earth dry of oil and our cars are rusting in our driveways and we have to walk everywhere, we will be forced into rethinking our understanding of who our sisters and brothers are in “local” communities.

What if our faith was “articulated” in our actions, our artistic expressions; the fruit of the Spirit playing out in our relationships, economics, ecological impact, and our politics?

What if I don’t label people I don’t agree with theologically, and instead try to come alongside them to work with them in embodying the kingdom of God? What if they don’t believe in the kingdom of God that I articulate? Can I still love them and encourage the areas I see them participating (even unknowingly) in the kingdom life?

As I write this post I think about my own father and mother. These two folks have a very different picture of a lot of the doctrines that I hold as central to the Christian faith. We disagree, yet I see them loving people, living sacrificially, serving with humility, and finding their own ways of articulating their faith. While I don’t always like their articulation, I love the Jesus that shows through their lives.

What if our faith is less our words and more our actions? After all, I don’t think Jesus ever mentioned “wrong” doctrines as keeping anyone out of the life of God’s Kingdom (for that matter, right doctrines don’t seem to get anyone in–though they may help a little along the way).

A couple of days ago I was at an “emergent-ish” conference. I was disappointed when applause followed a clarification about the school I attend. A speaker made note that my school was certainly not affiliated with a more conservative evangelical church of the same name. I appreciated the clarification, as there is always a lot of confusion concerning this topic. But I was appalled that there was a sort of pride in the audience’s response to this declaration. Where was the humility and kindness that we had been articulating throughout the conference?

As we stumble toward different articulations and embodiments of God’s kingdom, I hope that we can maintain integrity between our words and actions. Without this integrity we are simply putting a different face on the same old song and dance that we say we are sick of. What will it mean for us to hold the same openness and humility toward those in the communities we have emerged from as we hold for those who sound a little more like the communities we want to become? Can we have the humility to see everyone, no matter the theological articulation, as siblings?

Aren’t we all, more or less, just messed up daughters and sons of the same God? When Jesus talks about the kingdom as here among us, I don’t think he means among the ones who “get it right theologically.” I think he means, it’s here for, in, around, and through us all. None of us is completely “in” the kingdom. We all need grace to come alive to the rebirth and redemption that God is working on behalf of the entire world. If this sounds a little too “universalist” for some, please don’t judge me by my articulation…

Peace.

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What do the following people have in common:

Tony Jones
Frank Schaeffer
C. Wess Daniels
And as of now, 28 readers (and counting) of Jesus Manifesto?

Somewhere along the line, they’ve slurped long and hard from the Obama Kool-Aid.

This post is not suggesting that to vote for Obama is to be a blind follower of the Jonestown pedigree. Everyone has their reasons (some better than others) and I believe none of the above mentioned people are mindless zombies when it comes to politics or voting. But boiling just below the surface is the cult like worship that has manifested in Obama’s run. When he galloped into the Twin Cities a few months back, there were reports of woman fainting and grown men crying, as if The Beatles were the opening act. The Church of Obama was in session.

It would be much easier for me to dismiss voting for Obama if that’s all there was to it- ridiculous rock star homage and a pretty face (of which there is some). But it is much harder to look at the core of why Barack Obama has gained such a voice in what is the largest popularity contest in America only held every four years. His buzzwords of “hope,” “change,” and “unity” appeal to all of us. He appears to be the prime candidate to move the United States forward, with neighbors hand in hand, into a tumultuous season of worldwide violence, corporate greed, and expanded poverty. His platform reaches across simple party lines and brings a holistic Christian voice for those progressive members of the Church that for years have wanted to see politics be about more than just abortion and sexuality. So why shouldn’t we all drink from the same grape flavored trough?

Because I’m fearful it could turn out to be poisoned with Valium, chloral hydrate, and cyanide.

This has less to do with Mr. Obama’s stances on any political issue of our day, and more with the historical precedent Christianity has set for itself. When I see Christianity (fundamentalist, progressive, liberal, or any other type) get behind a movement or person, I can usually rest assured that we are at least two years late and five feet short. Rather than express Christian revelation in a way that is specific and adequate to the social realities in which we live, as Jacques Ellul writes, the Church too often “looks for ways to adapt Christianity to the dominant intellectual and sociological trend.” As a result, we guarantee ourselves a “small place in the new social order.”

The tendency to do this in understandable. It is the failures of the Church that has so often pushed well-meaning Christians to adopt new strategies for social change just as much as a bright new star appearing on the scene. But timing is everything and Ellul saw this in the “newly discovered” relationship between Marxist thought and Christianity. Christianity failed to answer the big questions and problems of the day, while Marxism offered a palatable answer that seemed Biblical enough. The two became one. The process of the inevitable co-opting in Ellul’s day looks eerily similar to our own situation:

(1) Injustice

The unjust society actually resulted after 20 centuries of Christianity.

· Communism loudly trumpets equality across classes

(2) Poverty

Rather than helping, the Church became just another “power” and sanctified the poor.

· Communism (in theory) always sides with the poor

(3) Authenticity

The Church had a serious disconnect between theory and practice. Hypocrites owned the hour.

· Communism consistently puts theory into practice; they practice what they preach

(4) Material Reality

Christianity offered a disembodied, private spirituality.

· Communism rubs our nose in this betrayal. It reminds us of the decisive importance of concrete, human life before death, and of the body and daily activity.

(5) Communal Aggressiveness

Christians sit besides each other on Sunday and yet ignore each other ’s lives.

· Communism promises to birth a communal spirit of militancy, sacrifice, and commitment.

This should in no way be read as an endorsement of Communist thought. In fact, it’s the exact opposite of an endorsement of any political/social “ism.” But it’s not hard to see how drinking the Obama “hope and change” kool-aid could lead to the same place Ellul’s communist brothers and sisters found themselves in. Ellul describes the process this way:

Recognizing this challenge moves us to take the next step: to take Christianity seriously again, to desire at last to be authentically Christian. Thus we were, to a great extent, encouraged to come to ourselves… But we move beyond the stage of listening to a challenge to noting an agreement, and from this observation we move on to seeing conformity at the level of action. Christians find they are no longer called just to become more Christ-like, but they believe that in order to become better Christians, they must cooperate with the Communists. (pp. 9-10, Jesus and Marx)

And as we again carve out our niche in the political realm, except this time while “caring about more than just abortion,” we will do whatever we have to do to stay there. And instead of once again taking Christianity seriously, we’ll turn to the latest message of “social justice” and “political reconciliation” being peddled by the loudest voice and ask them to do our share of the work. The flavor may have changed, but I’m afraid it’s still laced.

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