WHY CAN'T HE LEAVE US ALONE?
Jesus is to blame. The Christ of the cross is to blame.
If it weren't for him I might be able to find some peace but he and his
cross disturb me and won't let me be content with what I see when I look
within and around me. If your loved one is quadriplegic you know that
in many ways he or she isn't physically able to help you care for them
and in some sense you adjust to the situation—you expect nothing and in that
respect you aren't disappointed. If you truly believe there's nothing
better to be hoped for in this world I suppose you might rage in your
hopelessness or eat, drink (or starve) and die tomorrow; but if hope
were dead would there not be some kind of resignation, a reluctant,
numbed acceptance of things as they are? Maybe, but would that not be
better than vainly hoping? Is that not what the old Greek story means to
say in the story of Pandora's "box"—when she opened the forbidden box
everything in it escaped except...hope. And it became the source of
torment to all because they could never be content with things as they
are.
In an early essay Bertrand Russell said that
because we know the truth of human existence—that it's a pointless
accident—we must face it and build a future on "unyielding despair."
Well, it's into this world, with all its pain, loss, disappointment,
loneliness, cruelty, entrenched evils and invincible selfishness that
Jesus came, making claims and promising much.
In
the first century he offended the Romans and their view of power and
empire. He offended the Greeks and their view of God and wisdom. He
offended the Jews and their view of God's faithfulness and their place
in his purposes. And he continues to scandalise us all to this day.
The
people who care nothing for him—and never did—aren't affected by him.
The crass hedonists think life's a one way ticket so, to the degree that
they can manage it, they party the nights away. Maybe towards the end
they think of "fire insurance" (though even that's not of great concern
now). The world can't be made better—certainly not in their lifetimes—so
why worry about it? Get what you can as quick as you can, throw a
handful of coins in the direction of the world's needy during a big
public musical concert and get back to the usual partying.
Ignore
the tiny churches with their inner squabbles. Or, listen for a while to
their squabbles and discover how pathetic they are in the face of the
world's great needs and wrongs, and then go back to the partying. Not a
bad philosophy that; a happy life and an endless sleep at the end.
The
Jesus of the cross disturbs me in three general areas. There's the
state of the world and the church and my own personal situation.
Jesus
is too stubbornly real and I can't get away from him. Not that I'm
trying to, you understand. I neither try to nor want to get away from
him but being in his presence and listening to his kingly promises that
are written in blood I become impatient with the chaotic, oppressive,
confused, rebellious and cruel world. Why hasn't his sovereignty
transformed the world already? As sad-spoken Matthew Arnold said, in the
beginning, the tide of faith was fully in and covered the earth like a
garment. But now—it would appear—all we hear is the faint sound of its
"melancholy long withdrawing roar" as it retreats and leaves bare the
naked shingled shores of the world. Sometimes I sorely want the present
King of Kings to show himself more powerfully—more powerfully, that is,
in the more common understanding of power. I'd like him to obliterate
all the oppressive structures of the world—structures that we have
neither the desire to destroy nor the strength to do it, supposing we
had the desire. And why would we desire it, aren't we the ones that
build them? The state of the world is completely contrary to the Christian's claim that Jesus is Lord of Lords.
And
when I look at the church as a whole and consider how pathetic and weak
it is, how self-serving, as it fine-tunes its theology and gorges on
rich truth while a world of Lazaruses starves. Not content to draw lines
of fellowship in places where the heart of the gospel is attacked, many
church leaders insist on keeping us all in separate pens based on the
flimsiest differences and call it "defending the faith." We pay our
ministers to "stand for the truth" if they're willing to stand for the
truth that we pay them to stand for.
It's much
easier to believe the too-rich-to-be-fully-grasped doctrines of the
person and work of Jesus Christ in and as whom God revealed himself than
it is to believe in the church as it church-shops its way from one
assembly to another. And as we shop our first question is not, "What is
your gospel here?" it's, "What programs do you have to suit me here?" At
one end of the spectrum we have these primetime hucksters that
ceaselessly beg for money to fund their programs (or other hidden
things) and on the other there are churches that are offended if there's
talk about sharing our wealth. Time and money is spent on leadership
agendas that usually have to do with "making our church grow." Then
there's the "preaching" [?] that is nothing but a series on sessions
filled with secular suggestions on how to fine-tune your marriage
or raise nice kids or cultivate nice friends. This kind of "preaching"
is done by secularists, agnostics and atheists every bit as well as
preachers. It changes nothing that preachers throw in some Bible verses
for religious coloration. The Lord Jesus is ignored in the "preaching"
for months of suggestions that might be of some use socially.
And then there's the personal, bitter disappointment with oneself. There are times when you think you see real
progress and then like a bolt of lightning and a thunderclap events
expose your heart—it's seems as shrivelled as ever it was even after
years of longing for better. Just when you think you've experienced
significant growth you're brought face to face with outrageous meanness
or corruption or bitterness that pours out of you. Then you understand
what Dorothy Sayers was getting at when she wrote:
I am battered and broken and weary and out of heart,
I will not listen to talk of heroic things,
But be content to play some simple part,
Freed from preposterous, wild imaginings...
Men were not made to walk as priests and kings.
I will not listen to talk of heroic things,
But be content to play some simple part,
Freed from preposterous, wild imaginings...
Men were not made to walk as priests and kings.
Thou liest, Christ, Thou liest; take it hence,
That mirror of strange glories; I am I;
What wouldst Thou make of me? O cruel pretense,
Drive me not mad so with the mockery
Of that most lovely, unattainable lie!
That mirror of strange glories; I am I;
What wouldst Thou make of me? O cruel pretense,
Drive me not mad so with the mockery
Of that most lovely, unattainable lie!
And
for a while—a day, a week, a month, a year—you sulk and snarl and
prowl. Then you see him! He's always been there; you just didn't notice
during that wretched period. You see him looking at you with those big
eyes of his, calm and compelling, and as he moves away he looks back and
motions with his head, "You comin'?" and…
Why can't he leave us alone? Why can't we who have met him leave him alone?