preaching peace

This last Sunday I preached from Matthew 5:9, Jesus' blessing to the peacemakers. I am pleased with my effort. I know that no sermon is ever perfect, but I felt like I did my job adequately. I feel like I said what I meant and meant what I said. I called for the people of God's kingdom to be a people of peace--to tell an alternative story to the violent world... to tell a story in which forgiveness and reconciliation are the norm.


I stated in my introduction that there are few topics that make people as violent as talking about peace. I can say that no one got violent; however, I am sure not everyone was pleased with what I said. And frankly, I am okay with that. I have been preaching long enough to know that it is not my job to make people comfortable; it is my job to proclaim Christ's gospel. Honestly--and this may surprise my church--I am not comfortable with everything I said, but I believe that what I said was right. I often preach words that I need to hear as well. And I don't preach peace because I am good at it or with it. I preach peace because I think it is right.

I am not a pacifist... at least, not yet. I can't shake the feeling that calling myself a pacifist would be like calling myself a vegetarian, which I would be except for when I eat meat. Basically, I am too violent to be a pacifist. I want to be one, though. I think Jesus was one. I'm pretty sure his dad wasn't though. While that last sentence is a joke, there is a lot of tension in the joke for me. I find myself wanting to be like Jesus, but wondering if I really want what I think I want. I think that the real rub here is that I find myself facing the age old problem of wanting to be like Jesus but not wanting to die.

What I have found most problematic about the discussion among our churches about peace has been the overwhelming amount of caricaturing, belittling, and overly simplistic thinking that has left us no way to speak about peace without insulting each other and hurting one another emotionally. It's really sad and embarrassing.The issues here are highly complex, and both sides can point to scripture to make there case.

I don't think that the hypothetical arguments are much help. Would I have killed Hitler to stop the Holocaust? Yes. But I can't... not now. And to say that I would have from where I am now in 2012 is in many ways the bravery of being out of range. I don't have to storm Normandy to say that. I can sit in my comfortable office and fear no gravity of my response--no draft, no bullets, no bombs, no tanks. It's too easy, and it doesn't help. Would I harm a person invading my home from harming my wife or son? Yes. I would do that, I think, or die trying. I know that I would want to stop them by any means possible. But, the problem with hypothetical situations like this is that they are simply thought games. My answers mean nothing compared with the people who have had someone enter their home and threaten their families. And my ethics are not simply ideological ideals--they are real life actions.


Christian ethics cannot be based in hypothetical questions like this: Would Jesus have attacked a home invader if someone attempted to harm his family? I don't know. There are a lot of problematic elements to that sentence? Would Jesus have killed Pol Pot or Josef Stalin? I don't know. He never to my knowledge had much interaction with either. I don't think that hypothetical questions such as these are helpful at all. I don't think it is wise to try to psychoanalyze Jesus or try to assume to know what he would do in situations such as these. I think it would be exceptionally presumptuous to say the least to attempt to defend one of these positions unequivocally. I also think that it would be dangerous to build an unyielding ethic on the answers to these questions.

There may be a little value that can be ascribed to hypothetical questions--what the hypothetical questions do provide is an opportunity to test if one's general ethic is 100% consistent under all conceivable instances. I suppose there is some amount of value in such games, but I am not sure that a liveable ethic has to pass the test of being 100% consistent in order to be authentic and genuine.

For me, what makes  pacifism such a difficult commitment to make is not any one hypothetical situation, but rather the reality of sin present in the world en mass. It seems that violence is simply too banal--too commonplace without reason or good explanation--to think that a commitment to non-violence can ever be adequate ethically. In other words, too many people act violently for no really good reason other than the simple conclusion that the violence is there to do--my friends and I used to play a game in which we would surprise another friend and punch them as hard as we could, and to my knowledge, none of us ever liked it... it was miserable, but we did it "to pass time." I don't think we were exceptionally violent youth--none of us became boxers, soldiers, or assassins. We simply were being violent for the sake of being violent. A friend of mine calls it aggressive driving, but in reality it looks like he drives angry at everyone else on the road for being there (and he gets angriest at other aggressive drivers). He's angry just because, for no good reason. On a larger scale, men like Joseph Koney kidnap children and force them to kill forming them into an army for him so that they can help him repeat this cycle. Can pacifism offer an adequate answer to violence in general?

And here is the dilemma of faith. If I am a pacifist because I think that Jesus was one and I want to be like Jesus, then this question of "adequacy" really has no place. How would one define adequacy? And the truth is that adequacy is a better concept than effectiveness or success--they fare even worse in this discussion. But if discipleship is our commitment, then what could be inadequate about following Jesus? It does not matter how many persecutors become kind, or how many bullies stop being mean... Jesus is Lord and I follow him, regardless of whatever else happens, right? If his way is submission and not fighting back, then so is mine whether or not it seems adequate or seems to be working or seems to be fair or seems to be good. Pragmatism is not the fundamental measure of discipleship, faithfulness is.

So, whether I can commit to pacifism  is really secondary, for I am first committed to Christ. My primary commitment is to walk as Jesus walks. His way was not coercive or violent, and neither can my way be. Does this make me a pacifist? If Jesus' words and life is the measure of a Christian ethic, then I cannot argue convincingly that violence is ever good. If Jesus' death and resurrection are the measure of a Christian ethic, then I cannot argue convincingly that violence is ever an option.

And here is my dilemma. In spite of all of this, when pressed to determine the practice-able consistency of my ethic (enter hypothetical questions here), I would defend my family. I have hit a kid who called my wife (then girlfriend) a name (he had her confused with someone else actually). I would defend my son against an attacker. Does this mean I am not a pacifist? Maybe. Does this mean I am not a disciple?  I hope not.

I am not comfortable with this dialogue--I don't like where it goes. And I can't tell if I don't like where it goes because I am not ready to commit to it, or because I am allowing the language to confuse the issue, or because I am scared of the implications. So, what do I do?

I give grace.

I give grace to others in this journey. I give grace to Cornelius and all other soldiers who have fought and served bravely, not smearing their service in favor of my untested ethic. Indeed, those who sacrifice themselves that others can live in many ways reflect Christ as well. I come from a military family, but I myself never served--I went to college instead. I am blessed, and so are they.

I give grace to just war theorists who qualify some evil as the kind that necessitates a violent response. I don't find Just War Theory itself to be all that compelling. I find theories of just rebellion much more compelling though (Just War theory provides no category for a people to overthrow their rulers). But when dictatorships and governments turn hostile to their own people and plague their own citizens with death, I think it is right that the people rebel and fight off their oppressors. They have a right to life as well. I have a hard time thinking that the God of life who made us to live and live well wants them to die. 

And I give grace to pacifists who often get belittled for living peaceably with all--especially those people who don't deserve it. Pacifists are all too often belittled as quietists and passive-ists, and both are false. A commitment to peace and life in a world of violence and death puts one in a perilous position. But they are blessed and they image Jesus who died for giving life, when returning fire would certainly have been defensible by most standards. 

I give grace to people who are shallow and simplistic. I give grace to people who are confused and distraught. I give grace to all of us as we wrestle with the witness of Jesus and how to make sense of it today, here and now.

I give grace to myself. Maybe one day i will have better answers, but for now my answer is that I will follow Christ as best I can. 

So... can I conclude that we should all be pacifists? No. At least, not yet. But I am convinced that whatever we do, we must be Christian. I firmly believe that the people of God must tell a story of peace with our words, lives, and actions, because our Lord is the Prince of Peace. We must tell the story of reconciliation and grace... however we answer the hypotheticals. We must tell the story of mercy, not sacrifice... especially in how we live in the concrete. We must walk in the footsteps of Jesus as best we can.

And that "as best we can" is not a cop out... it is the most honest and sincere way that I can say that I believe that life is not easy, the issues are complex, and grace is real.

Poems & Faith, part 1

I enjoy reading poetry. I don't read it all the time, but I do really love it. In particular, I love how much it says so compactly. I love its richness and simplicity and depth and playfulness. This is the first in an ongoing series that will explore poetry and faith in my own journey.

Fascinating and mercurial poet W.H. Auden was amazing. Amid all of his incredibly powerful poems, I find my mind and spirit resonating with one small haiku found with in his "Symmetries and Asymmetries" collection (ca. 1963-64). It is taut and simple:

"When he looked the cave in the eye,
Hercules,
Had a moment of doubt."

Perhaps it is my love of wordplay that finds fulfillment in this poem. I am drawn to the impossibility of looking an inanimate thing like a cave "in the eye." So odd, yet so plainly obvious is this phrase. Caves and dark places hold the mysterious nature upon which we tend to base some of our perceptions of person-hood. Why wouldn't someone look a cave in the eye?

Perhaps it is my love for Greek mythology--those spiraling narratives that speak in colorful and surprising ways toward an understanding of this world which is riddled with problematic inconsistency--that finds purchase in this verse. Born of a divine father (Zeus, no less) and an earthly mother (Alcmene), Hercules is one of the demigods--not quite fully gods, but so much more than mortals. Their stories of heroism and strength point up the best and worst of what both god and humanity are capable of.  To hear that Hercules is the one sizing up this cave and looking it into the eye brings to mind all the many caves mighty Hercules wandered into as he sought purpose and direction from the Oracle, or slew the hydra in Lerna, or drug the Cerberus from hell. Which of his labors could this poem be encountering?

Of all of this poem, it is the final phrase that speaks so loudly to me. Its honesty is crushing and freeing all at the same time. Hercules who was stronger and larger than any other human, who was immortal having nursed from Hera, who clothed himself in the impenetrable skin of the Nemean Lion, would seemingly never fear a fight. He is the champion of champions. The genius of Auden's haiku is that Hercules has a moment of sheer humanity. He looks the cave in the eye and for just one moment... he doubted.

It is almost as if Auden is playfully suggesting that humanity happens, even to the best of us.

I need to hear this from time. Not that I think I am a Hercules--I am not very strong, not very immortal, not very courageous honestly. But the truth is that I know that I am capable--by God's grace we are all stunningly capable. Yet, I somehow sell myself on the idea that because I am God's child and God is in me, I must be an unstoppable and undaunted force for good. After all, in Christ I have immortality in me. If God is for us, then who can stand against us? What shall I fear?

As much as I want to say, "Nothing! I fear nothing," The truth is that I cannot answer like that. I am doubting Hercules--assured of victory yet daunted in the face of such uncertainty. Like Jesus in Gethsemane, I know God's presence is with me, but I am still daunted by life's immense complexity and uncertainty. And, frankly, I am learning to let that be okay.

I am learning to accept that being available to God does not mean having a fearless faith, but rather having a surrendered and trusting heart in spite of all dreadful opposition.