Too Hot to Handle

There is an old story about a church school teacher who asked a young girl in her class why her little brother wasn’t coming to church school any longer. The girl replied, “Well, to tell the truth, he just can’t stand Jesus!” Her brother had more of Jesus than he wanted.
There is something about this that hits home for me.  Perhaps for you too?  Are there not times when Jesus is too hot to handle? There are two sides to this question.  One side is suggested by our New Testament reading, the other by our Old Testament reading.
II.
Let me begin with the Old Testament lesson.  It presents one side of the problem.
God calls Moses to the mountain to give him the tablets of the commandments. Moses stays on the mountain for forty days and nights. During this time God’s glory is revealed as a “devouring fire” displayed to all the people at the foot of the mountain. We suspect that Moses and the people got more of God than they really wanted. We can imagine that they preferred a more comfortable God. In fact one that did not require, as penitence for their creating an idol while Moses was up there talking to the big G, Moses commanded that the ones who were with him would be the ones who slayed their brother, their friend, their neighbor. The text reports that three thousand people fell on that day.
Is God really a devouring fire? Even understanding that language metaphorically does not help.  There are some things about God that need to be literal or straightforward.
At Thursday night’s confirmation class, I showed clips from the 2003 film “Luther” in order to present a dramatic view of the events leading up to the Protestant reformation, and more significantly to get them to ask this question — what of God must be taken literally?
The film begins by introducing us to the monk Luther. He spills the wine at his ordination. That night in his monk’s cell, we see him wrestling with God. He is angry. He blames himself. He blames God. His confessor comes to visit him. He asks him what it is that he wants. Luther replies: “I seek a merciful God and a God I can love and a God who loves me.”
Luther understood, eventually, that he was not alone in seeking a God who literally loved and could be loved. His parishioners had never heard this gospel preached before, and since they were barred from reading the bible (too complex for their simple minds) they had obviously not read it either. And yet, because he and they alike longed for this God of love, Luther began to understand that his was not simply the ego of a scholar desiring fame. His was the gospel’s position.  The church’s position, on the diametrical other hand, was the position of the execrable anti-christ. Luther was credible, even though he was condemned.  The church, though incredible, held considerable power over the powerless, and held to the line that it was Luther’s responsibility to believe what was unbelievable.
It is a pipe-dream to suppose that Luther put an end to non-credible church doctrine. The enemies of Luther were legion. Today, an idea of a credible gospel still has opponents, both in thought and in deed. While the Supreme Court was surely correct in their defense of the Westboro Baptist Church’s right to picket funerals, that does not make the church’s deeds laudable, or even defensible, from any point of view. Can we not preach, both in word and in deed, about a God who loves us, no matter who we were born to be or who we have become, and a God we can love, no matter what we may do against our better judgment?
A pivotal moment in my development as a Christian came when I realized, like Luther, that any claim about God has to meet this test. Everything we say, and everything we do, whether explicitly about God or not, must, if we wish others to trust us, be credible. In other words, it needs to be worthy of being believed where to believe it means not only not having to give up what it means to be fully human, but of having the quality to lead you to fullness of life.
Sometimes Jesus is too hot to handle because to believe him means to deny our basic confidence in the possibility of a sustaining meaning to life.
III.
Sometimes, though, Jesus is too hot to handle simply because  to embrace this possibility of real life overwhelms and frightens.
It can do this, because the nature of this gospel is not so much about finding comfort in one’s own private troubles, but because its call stems from grasping for oneself its conviction that no one single life is apart from the community of life enlivened by the love we call God.  Stated in different, non-religious language, what this means is that the good which forms the basic possibility of all that is right in my conduct is not my own good, but the good of all concerned.
I always find it interesting that this final Sunday in Epiphany catapults us from the conversations we have been having about Jesus’ birth and what that manifestation into the world of God’s love in the form of a human means for us, to the end of his ministry some thirty odd years later.  I find it so interesting because there is a seamlessness to the presentation despite the timeline hiccup.  Jesus’ life and ministry which he described borrowing the prophet’s call, is to clothe the naked, feed the hungry and visit the imprisoned.  He was born on the margins of the life of the rich and powerful, he called his first disciples from that margin, and he brought into a circle of love and care those who had been cast out.  It is impossible to understand today’s so-called  transfiguration story without seeing that this activity stirred up a hornet’s nest of activity against him.
Here are a few snippets from the previous chapters, selectively chosen as the stick whacking that hornet’s nest.

From the days of John the baptist until now, the kingdom of heaven has suffered violence, and the violent take it by force. –Matthew 11:12
Woe to you Chorazin!  Woe to you Bethsaida! For if [God’s] deeds of power done in you had been done in Tyre or Sidon, (gentile towns) they would have repented long ago in sackcloth and ashes.  But I tell you, on the day of judgment it will be more tolerable for Tyre and Sidon than for you. — Matthew 11:21-22
Every kingdom divided against itself is laid waste, no city or house divided against itself will stand. — Matthew 12:25
Either make the tree good, and its fruit good; or make the tree bad, and its fruit bad; for the tree is known by its fruit.  You brood of vipers!  How can you speak good things when you are evil? — Matthew 12:33-34
The some of the scribes and Pharisees said to him, “Teacher, we wish to see a sign from you.”  But he answered them, “An evil and adulterous generation asks for a sign, but no sign will be given to it except the sign of the prophet Jonah.  . . . — Matthew 12:38-39
The the Pharisees and scribes came to Jesus from Jerusalem and said, “Why do your disciples break the tradition of the elders? For they do not wash their hands before they eat.”  He answered them, and why do you break the commandment of God for the sake of your tradition?   . . . For the sake of tradition, you make void the words of God.  You hypocrites! — Matthew 15:1-2, 6-7

In the verses immediately preceding our reading of transfiguration, and just following these incendiary comments on the ruling authorities, civil and ecclesiastical, the gospel writers makes plain what has been hinted at — the hornets are out — Jesus is too hot to handle:

From that time on, Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders and the chief priests and scribes and be killed. . .  –Matthew 16:21

IV.
Do you get a little sick of Jesus?  Perhaps it is because Jesus as you hear him preached, or Jesus as you see him revered, or Jesus as you read about him in today’s literature or news outlets is incredible.  Perhaps it is because in order to accept the Jesus about which you have learned you have to swallow your dignity or put aside your intelligence or bury your pain.  This week, we begin a 5 week walk together toward Easter.  Will that walk make you sick of Jesus because it is so full of depression?  Will Easter attract only because of the flowers and the music?
Traditionally, Lent is a downer.  We have said, against our better judgement about God and Jesus, that God intended Jesus to die “for us” so that the journey of Lent is a journey with a “dead man walking.”  It is hard to believe how that can be a journey very many people want to take.  For people who have experienced the violence this image evokes,  Jesus is just too hot to handle.

To be fed up with Jesus for this reason is unfortunate and not a little sad. It does not have to be this way.
On this last Sunday before Lent — I wonder if the story of the transfiguration of Jesus is meant to free us from such a sad way of thinking.  Granted the story has its fair share of the supernatural.  But as is always the case — we are reading a story written by people for whom the supernatural functioned as scientific explanation does today.
In modern language we may say that Peter, James and John, saw, as though for the first time, this whole arc of Jesus life.  They saw him as Moses, the liberator of a captive people, they saw him as Elijah, the bearer of God’s love to the enemy in Samaria, they saw him as a young man baptised by John who proclaimed Jesus his mission to cry out the story of God’s love to all, even those cast out into the wilderness.  Today we use the image of a light bulb turning on.  For Peter and James and John, this light bulb turning on brought them to their knees in joy, and not a little fear.  For the call to serve those whom Moses, Elijah and Jesus serve is not light responsibility, but it is the way  to pure, transfiguring joy.
Get up and do not be afraid.
Amen.

Feb 27 — The Kings' Apophasis

It’s the penultimate Sunday in Epiphany today.  Which is only interesting because despite the fact that it is the last Sunday in February, the church calendar still has us harkening back to the birth of Jesus.  I’m not one to observe the letter of the church calendar law, by any means, but I do like the fact that even this far into the new year we are bringing ourselves to consider again, outside of the usual trappings of Christmas, what it means for us to be Christians, to have claimed Jesus as ultimately significant.  For while we can all argue about how Easter may or may not be important to my faith or yours, we all do so as people who claim the name of Christ, and we can only claim the name of Christ because he was born into the world, and somehow into our hearts and lives.  The season of Epiphany dwells on this fact.
Epiphany, at least in its original and not in the popular sense, strikes me as curiously countercultural.  Popularly, of course, we say we have an epiphany, whenever we have an idea, whether harebrained or not.   An epiphany is the light bulb turning on — it is not, as in its original sense, the judgement revealed by the light.   In its original Greek sense, the word epiphany did not privilege private revelation, but sought reasoned judgement.
What I want to say this morning is in the context of the culture of the church and of the society in which we live today both having said and continuing to say, you cannot speak about God in any manner or any forum that really matters.  The church has relegated God to the special pleading of revelation and the special language of theology, and our society has said that any talk about God shall be relegated to the church and therefore cannot be reasonable. In other words there will be no exalting of reason to the height of passion, as Gibran put it in our gathering words this morning.  There will only be passion, it will rule unattended, and will burn to its own destruction.
Curiously, it has not always been this way.  As late as the First Vatican Council in 1870, the church tried to part ways with its authoritarian past when it decreed, as an article of faith to be upheld by all Christians that

God, the source and end of all things, can by known with certainty from the consideration of created things, by the natural power of human reason . . .

That promulgation stood against several centuries of thought within the church that goes, in a nutshell, like this:
God is so completely and categorically different than humans, and humans are so pathetically imperfect, sinful and stupid that any attempt to reason about the nature of God must be not only wrong, but an affront to the divine.  The result of this way of not speaking has been to take away our voice, historically in the interest of maintain order and orthodoxy.  If Christians are free to think then soon enough God will no longer be God.  But that poses a much higher problem — it keeps the highest moral order and spiritual success from the grasp of individual Christians.  We are left thinking that our ordinary thoughts about God are inappropriate.  And so our search for God takes on a veil of tentativeness and frustration.
What I want to do in this sermon this morning is invite you to think about your own fascinating and yes, sometimes difficult, search to know God.  Invite you, by your own insight into the truth of the matter, the voice of your own highest moral and spiritual success.  This call is the one bedrock invitation of the Judeo Christian tradition — the call to be Holy.
The temptation is to read that passage from Leviticus, and so many others like it in the Bible, as a set of rules.  To be Holy, you must honor your father and mother, keep the sabbaths, make no idols or images, observe rules about sacrifices, and carry yourself properly in all matters relating to ritual cleanliness.
Thankfully, that’s not the way we humans work when we aim for the highest moral success — and its not the way our tradition has to work either.
We’ll bet back to Leviticus in a minute.  First let me explain the title of my sermon — the whole of what I want to get across hangs on it.
Erin and I went to see the King’s Speech last week.  The kids were both away, and we took the opportunity to see the movie that has been receiving all sorts of high praise.  It was good, and I’m not going to be giving anything away today, in part because the movie is not about the plot so much as the interplay between the Duke of York, soon to become King, played by Colin Firth and a speech coach played by Geoffrey Rush.  You’ve probably already heard the plot — The King of England dies, leaving the throne to the eldest son, who refuses it because of a love interest.  This is not only scandalous, it places Bertie, the younger brother on the throne with a severe stammer.  Fortunately, Bertie’s wife, Queen Elizabeth, has sought help from a certain Mr. Lionel Logue, an eccentric speech therapist, and the two have developed a fond relationship and made some headway on the stammer by the time all of this happens.
I’m not a psychologist, but I do know that there is some debate about the root causes of stuttering and stammering and no widespread agreement on how best to deal with it.  But you don’t need to be a psychologist to know that the life of a stutterer or stammerer is clouded by fear — by fear that even in intimate moments with one’s own family, one will not be able to speak. That fear is like a cancer that steals the voice of the stammerer with a more and more iron like grip.
All of this, of course, comes to a head when Bertie’s brother refuses to take the throne, placing, as he puts it in the clip I’ll play for you in a moment, mad king George the stammerer in position to let down his people in their hour of deepest need.
Here he is in a scene with Mr. Logue, in the Westminster Cathedral preparing for the coronation.  The Duke is timid and fearful as he reflects on this what will soon transpire, not only for him, but the world, as Hitler prepares to move into France and England, he knows must fight another war when the memory of the last one has hardly dimmed.  The iron-like grip of fear has made him second think his friendship with Lionel Logue.  We pick it up with the Duke opining his relationship with this commoner.
I Have a Voice Clip
It is clear that this is the turning moment.  But the film is great because this turning moment does not make everything instantly better for the king.  There is no single, magical epiphany that will cure him.  But to stand and recognize that he has a voice, allows the King to be real.  His stammer is not gone, but he has a new confidence.  Lionel Logue remained by his side for the speech, from which the movie gets its name, and for every speech of any importance thereafter.
The word for not having a voice is apophasis.  And the word for refusing to use your voice to express your thoughts is apophatic.  Several weeks ago, when I read from the Revelation of the Magi, a beautiful passage of the ubiquitous presence of God, someone commented to me afterward, at just how great a reading that was.  This weeks’ reading from the RevMagi will likely not have moved you that way.  There is no voice.  Neither his heavenly worlds nor his lower ones are able to speak about his majesty.  This is in accord, not with the early disciples’ record of their knowledge of God through Jesus, but of much later, as theologians attempted to serve, not God, but the church, to support the authority of the church and prop up the power structures of the institution. In serving not God, but the church, they lost their voice.
We are not called to be apophatic Christians.  Our anthem this morning has it more correct than the anonymous authors of the RevMagi — Now let every tongue adore thee!  Where we partake through faith victorious, no mortal eye hath seen nor mortal ear hath heard.  Therefore with joy shall soar our song in praise to God forever more.
To be free from the false constraints of apophaticism is to be free to love, because love without a voice is not really love. It is going through the motions of it.  It’s like trying to sing without being willing to hit the wrong note.  It is impossible to love, short of having a voice.  It is impossible to love, when the fear that what you say in your love is somehow sinful.  The whole of command to be holy is lies in the discovery your voice.
Like King George VI, our various journeys to discover God are often difficult.  No one has said that it wouldn’t be.  But this is no excuse not to speak.  It is no excuse for us not to say, as the great reformer Martin Luther did before the grand inquisitor, “Here I stand.”  We claim the name of Christ not to shut up in dumb for saying something wrong about God, but that we might lift our voices, in praise to God forevermore.  Amen.

Feb. 20 — To Hear a Poem a Second Time

Readings:
Psalm 23
Excerpt from Grace and Personality by John Oman

God does not conduct His rivers, like arrows, to the sea. The ruler and compass are only for finite mortals who labour, by taking thought, to overcome their limitations, and are not for the Infinite mind. The expedition demanded by man’s small power and short day produces the canal, but nature, with a beneficent and picturesque circumambulancy, the work of a more spacious and less precipitate mind, produces the river. Why should we assume that, in all the rest of His ways, He rejoices in the river, but, in religion, can use no adequate method save the canal?

When we gather for worship here in the chapel — the smaller, cozier space lends itself to closer attention to what we do when we gather together.  It lends itself to closer consideration of what we expect from one another, what you expect from me and from Mary Jane and Erik.  It’s not that we are under a microscope of critical attention in this smaller space, but something different does seem to happen.  I find that interesting.
I’m not entirely sure what this is or why it happens.  Doing things differently always heightens our awareness of our surroundings, including, the surrounding with which we most surely have to deal, namely, God.  In worship of any kind, we are to relax and become freshly aware of the presence of God, to discover in sanctuary from our daily lives, something of ineradicable confidence of the final worth of our life. While this sounds like an easy thing to do, I think it is also easy to “get used” to a space and style of worship and forget to explore what this means, God as the ineradicable confidence of the worth of our existence.  We settle into a familiar, if somewhat uncomfortable pew.  We say hello to the person or people sitting in front of us or behind us.  But not really. We still have those walls up that keep us from being a part of the flow of beauty that worship tries to name as God, into which worship wants to get us to dip our toes, if not our whole selves.
Wouldn’t it be good if we could, as our gathering prayer put it, palpably sense the beauty before, the beauty under, the beauty around?  As I was fussing with the new format for today’s bulletin, trying to find a font that worked for the vision I had in my head, I had highlighted, the words, “I walk with beauty,” and used them to try out different fonts, which meant that I read those words over and over and over again.  I suddenly realized I was doing, in my mind at least, since I was the only one here, what the words suggested.  I had the sense that I was not alone.  That the air I breathed was not just the stuff of nitrogen, oxygen and carbon dioxide that it surely us, but that it was a part of God.  And that no thing was not apart from this cosmic web of connection that makes you my brother and you my sister and gives my actions and all of our actions urgency and importance.
Part of the task whenever and wherever we gather to worship is to bring ourselves into this space.  Because I did not say that that was only my task, or the task of Erik or Mary Jane, but our collective task, that feels a bit different when we sit close and tight to one another, when the sounds of our voices can be heard as the human voice with all of its tensions and releases that make it individual to you.  It is all too easy, especially in the sanctuary to hide our voices because “I can’t sing.”  But when we bring ourselves into this space were we cannot hide, we discover that we become, no matter what we think our foibles to be, no matter what we perceive our own shortcomings to consist of, like a child again — free to seek in one another the kind of cooperation and mutual understanding that we treasure as the possibility for grace and unimaginable good.
This is a beauty.  It is like standing in front of a Rembrandt for a long time.  Or like listening to a poem for the second time. We see things not of our own constellations.
Here’s called Piano, by DH Lawrence.
Piano
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.
In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.
So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.
I read this poem when I was in college.  But I didn’t remember it until I heard Garrison Keillor read it on Wednesday morning, September 12, 2001.
Mary Jane to read “Piano” again.
September 11 was not a beautiful day in the annuals of history.  But it was a stunningly gorgeous day by any other measure.  The beauty with which we have to do in worship does not necessarily wrench tears from us, and it may reach divine heights– but it cannot forget that we humans live passioned lives, that our music soars and booms and even tinkles and tingles.  To hear a poem the second time is to see the ordinary with beauty, before and under and around. It changes the way we face our mortality. To hear a poem a second time is to see differently, to see that that the ruler and compass which which we tend to circumscribe our lives and even our worship, are only for finite mortals who labour to overcome their limitations; to hear a poem a second time is to let the circumambulancy of grace lead where it will and find there home.
I want to conclude by reading one more poem. This one by the famous poet of the working land, Wendell Berry. It’s called a Timbered Choir.
A Timbered Choir
Raking hay on a rough slope,
when I was about sixteen,
I drove to the ridgetop and saw
in a neighbor’s field on the other side
a pond in a swale, and around it
the whole field filled
with chicory in bloom, blue
as the sky reflected in the pond—
bluer even, and somehow lighter;
though they belonged to gravity.
They were the morning’s
blossoms and would not last.
But I go back now in my mind
to when I drew the long windrow
to the top of the rise, and I see
the blue-flowered field, holding
in its center the sky-reflecting pond.
It seems, as then, another world
in this world, such as a pilgrim
might travel days and years
to find, and find at last
on the morning of his return
by his mere being at home
awake—a moment seen, forever known.
When we gather for worship, we gather to be lead to see; to see another world in this world. Not two worlds — one world different because we see it as God’s. Because for all the disappointments and failures we know in it, the pilgrim possibility is always open for us.
So we gather for worship as fellow pilgrims on the quest for beauty, to encourage each other in the one goal before us, will you let go of the ruler and compass and be here for the moment — seen and forever known? This is the call of God today.
Erik to read “The Timbered Choir” again.

Feb 6 — Bowing in the Square of Tahrir

Of the many stories that havei come out of the Egypt in the past week.  I like this one the best.  It is from the New York Times reporter, Nicholas Kristof.  He describes being in Tahrir Square on Wednesday when the pro Mubarak forces moved in wielding clubs, machetes, swords and straight razors.  The crowd opened up to let these loud and violent protesters have their way.

Then along came two middle-age sisters, Amal and Minna, walking toward the square to join the pro-democracy movement. They had their heads covered in the conservative Muslim style, and they looked timid and frail as thugs surrounded them, jostled them, shouted at them.
Yet side by side with the ugliest of humanity, you find the best. The two sisters stood their ground. They explained calmly to the mob why they favored democratic reform and listened patiently to the screams of the pro-Mubarak mob. When the women refused to be cowed, the men lost interest and began to move on — and the two women continued to walk to the center of Tahrir Square.

Kristof managed to interview these two women.  All they said was that they wanted democracy, just like you.
Wednesday was a bloody day.  Thursday was violent, but perhaps because of the strong condemnation by the US Government, the army was trying to keep the pro-Mubarak thugs from attacking the peaceful anti-government protesters.
Thomas Hobbes was famously dubious about the possibility of an uprising of the people accomplishing anything good.  It remains to be seen what will happen. But With Kristof, I have high hopes. Hobbes was wrong about his idea of power.  The two women he interviewed were not powerful.  And yet, it might be said that their presence and the presence of thousands of others urging their compatriots not to be angry at the pro-Mubarak forces and in fact urging them to simply say, in the face of scorn and violence, that they are standing here for them too — for their right to say and think and do as they feel right and good — kept Wednesday from blowing up into a maelstrom of blood and rocks and razors.
II.
Rather than be philosophical with Hobbes, I want to use the story of Naaman, to rebut Hobbe’s position that honor consisteth only in the opinion of power. This one thing must be said, though, to understand Hobbes. His whole system of political philosophy, he called it a science, is based on the notion of power. At root that power is the power of the fear of death. All human activity is the response of this fundamental fear to the established power. Out of the fear of all against all, humans give up their rights on the condition that others do so as well. Hobbes calls this the covenant which lies at the basis of his science of the commonwealth. His philosophy cannot explain, nor deal with the problem of the right minority willing to challenge the erroneous majority.
So to Naaman. It is an extraordinary story and from it comes, at the very end, the phrase “Bowing down in the temple of Rimmon.” Whether we understand the condition, known as bowing down in the temple of Rimmon as a good thing or a bad thing, depends, on how we read this story — and how we read this story, depends on what we inherit from Hobbes.
Naaman is the commander of the army of Aram. Aram was part of the country north of Israel that we today call Syria. Second Samuel describes wars with the Aramaeans. A character from Aram means the story will not hold anything good for the Israelis. Nevertheless. Naaman is a man of high standing, and because a young girl gets involved with him on his behalf we can assume that his high regard had to do with his humanity, and not simply his position of military or political power.
Naaman has leprosy which becomes the raison d’etre of the story. The girl has heard of Elisha, the prophet who is in Samaria in the land of Israel, and his ability to heal. She approaches Naaman, and urges the general to seek him out.
Naaman finally agrees and has his king draft a letter for the king of Israel. This, as you can imagine mightily upsets the King Jehoram when he receives it. Perhaps this is a trap. It is unlikely that his comment, “Am I God, to give life or death?” had to do with a sense of humility before God. The record notes Jehoram committed evil acts before God. No, the letter frightens Jehoram as a threat to his throne.
Elisha hears word of all of this, and calmly asks Jehoram to send Naaman to him in Samaria. Naaman rides up to the entrance to Elisha’s house on horses and chariots. But Elisha will not come out. He sends a message — “go bath in the river Jordan seven times. Then your flesh shall be healed and you shall be clean.”
But this Naaman does not do. Incensed that he has come all this way not to have Elisha come to him and work his magic on him, he throws a fit. He is like the modern patient who demands for his time, all of the best tests, relevant or not, and a the private room on top of that. Finally, his servants convince him to do as was suggested, which he does and lo and behold he is healed and cleaned.
Naaman returns, bearing gifts of thanks for Elisha: great piles of gold and the best clothing.
Of course Elisha refuses. From the beginning Naaman has been playing a game with which Elisha will have nothing to do. Naaman is a Hobbesean. Elisha, Christ-like. Naaman is so thoroughly steeped in the theory that the greatest of human powers is that which is united in a ruler and that that ruler has use of all those powers depending on his will, that when he wants to speak to a prophet who lives in an unpretentious house in the country he visits a king in a palace in a city instead.
Naaman is so thoroughly a Hobbesean that when he arrives at the gate to Elisha’s house, he expects to be honored because Elisha is a man of reputation. When Elisha tells Naaman to leave to the river Jordan and be done with it, Naaman counters — the value of a man is his price. We honor one another as we put a price on our skills. Come out and talk to me, for I am honorable.
And finally when he is cured and ecstatic about it, he behaves as though he is still bound by the rules of power politics. If he does not offer him great gifts, he will dishonor him and worse will be dishonored through that dishonoring.
The story is full of twists — and the best ones come at the end. Naaman digs up some dirt and asks Elisha if he may take it home so that he may worship on Jewish soil. I can only imagine Elisha raising his eyebrows, but he approves, whereupon Naaman makes one last request. “May the Lord pardon your servant on one count: when my master goes into the temple of Rimmon to worship there, leaning on my arm, and I bow down in the house of Rimmon, when I do bow down in the House of Rimmon, may the Lord pardon your servant on this one count.” Elisha wishes him peace and they are done with each other.
III.
Hobbes thought that he was writing a scientific account of civil society — and his analysis of power which so nearly matches a story from 2 thousand years before, suggests he got some of it at least, right. The question however, and this is why it is worth reading Hobbes today, is whether we want to follow Hobbes in his theory of the commonwealth, or whether we should rather follow Elisha in his Christ-like way.
Of course, theories mean nothing unless they are put to the test. Perhaps one of the most famous lines from Hobbes’ Leviathan is the one with which we concluded: Honor consisteth in the opinion of power. And the opinion of power has no concern for whether an action be just or unjust. Power is worn like the horns of a bull, to do no useful work except frighten away contenders.
To live in such a society where the power Hobbes proposes forms the basis of a peaceful covenant between people is to live in a society where only the illusion of peace is maintained like a calm lid on a pot of boiling water. For Hobbes, the ideal of freedom can serve no purpose in a commonwealth. Peace is maintained by knowing the subject’s duty — to bow down before Rimmon. Think what you like, but know who is your master.
Hobbes contributed mightily to the idea of a commonwealth. And he should still be read and studied for that contribution. But primarily he should be studies for his negative value, showing to what a dead world of autocracy we should speedily return, if the ultimate basis of freedom should ever cease to be the high demand by which alone it is maintained, either for our own soul’s or for the soul of a country — let a person deny him or herself.
For the sake of a country in Northern Africa, and perhaps the greater part of the middle east — people are denying themselves and no longer bowing down because their master orders it, to a false idea of freedom. Instead they have gathered in the Square of Liberty and bowed down to its noble ideals.

Jan 30 — Confessions of a Contrarian

St. Paul Preaching in Athens

Psalm 15
O Lord, who may abide in your tent? Who may dwell on your holy mountain?
He who lives without blame,
who does what is right,
and in his heart acknowledges the truth;
who has had no slander upon his tongue;
who has never done harm to his fellow,
or borne reporoach for [his acts toward] his neighbor;
for whom a contemptible man is abhorrent,
but who stands by his oath even to his own hurt,
and does not retract,
who has enver lent money at interest,
or accepted a bribe against the innocent.
The man who acts thus shall never be shaken. (transl. Nahum Sarna)
I Corinthians 1:17-25
I have a love/hate relationship with this passage from First Corinthians. I do not like it because it spawns all kinds of ill-considered sermons with statements like “Paul wants us to put aside our thoughts and enter into the world of the gospel with our hearts. Jesus confounds all attempts to think reasonably about God.”   That kind of claptrap, about what is of ultimate importance to us, leads only to bad ethics and is bad for the church and bad for the world.
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