CCBlogs thinking critically, living faithfully

When A Banjara Indian woman named Mary came to our church to talk to us, nine-year-old Chloe was there. Chloe had to be there. We could not let Chloe miss a chance to meet a Banjara woman, because Chloe had been praying for the Banjara for four years.

The Banjara of India are one of three major Gypsy groups in the world. As a very low-caste people, millions of Banjara live without running water or electricity. Mary told us it takes about $450 to support a Banjara pastor and family for one year and that amount allows the family to live well and within the expectations of their culture. That is also enough money to support a microbusiness that helps their village in very tangible ways.

Mary loves to cook, so she came to my house after worship and prepared a fabulous chicken curry meal for a number of people in our church. We all sat around the kitchen, watching her prepare the curry according to her family recipe. We asked all sorts of questions and peered into the pots. It was like having our own cooking show...

Click here to read the rest of this essay at The Christian Century online.

Archive of Christian Century Articles by Gordon Atkinson

rlp

What is a "Friend of RLP?"

A rlpdv dramatized scripture story.

Read part one here.

Part Two:

Jesus sat on an elevated platform near the court of the Gentiles, surrounded by a crowd of about 75 people. There were both tradesmen and laborers present along with women and a number of children. Some of the children were listening to Jesus. Others were sitting on the ground drawing in the dirt with sticks. Jesus was in the middle of one of his famous stories, and the crowd was completely engrossed in the tale. Near the back of the crowd were a couple of temple guards who had wandered over to listen.

As Jesus spoke, his eyes lifted and he looked over the heads of the crowd at something behind them. He continued to talk, but his eyes did not return to the people, and he seemed somewhat distracted. Jesus slowed his story and then stopped speaking altogether. Some people turned around to see what he was looking at. Jesus stroked his beard thoughtfully.

“My my, look who’s coming down the street toward us.”

The rest of the crowd turned in time to see ten men approaching, five Pharisees and five Herodians. The people respectfully parted and allowed the men up close to Jesus.

“Pharisees and Herodians on the streets together?” Jesus held up his hands in disbelief and addressed the crowd.

“Why it must be the long-awaited year of Jubilee. Peter, I thought you were keeping an eye on the calendar for us. Jubilee has come, and I’ve been paying rent on my father’s land for half the year!”

Peter grinned, and the crowd laughed loudly. Jesus laughed too, bending at the waist and nodding to the people around him.

“Good one, right? Of course good.”

The ten men said nothing. They waited patiently for the laughing to stop. As the sounds died out, Jesus straightened and spoke.

“Good afternoon, Mathias. You certainly have some surprising new friends with you.”

There were a few chuckles, but the crowd sensed that something important was happening and quieted quickly.

Mathias nodded to one of the other Pharisees, who stepped forward to address Jesus.

“Rabbi, a question please.”

Jesus stepped down from the platform and went the man. He touched him on the arm and nodded.

“Certainly. What would you like to know?”

The man looked a little uncomfortable to have Jesus suddenly so close to him. He cleared his throat and offered an obviously prepared speech.

“Good rabbi, it is well known that you are among the wisest rabbis, not only in Nazareth, but yes, even here in Jerusalem. Your wisdom is known far and wide.”

Jesus inclined his head politely.

“Further, we know that you are dedicated to God’s truth. You do not worry about your reputation or the reputation of others. You simply tell the truth and never let any human concerns deter you. You are to be congratulated for this. And this is why we seek your counsel. We want to know the truth about a difficult matter.”

Jesus inclined his head again.

“Is it lawful under the law of Moses to pay taxes to Caesar, or not?”

Jesus did not hurry. The ball was in his court and he intended to keep it there for awhile. He nodded and considered the issue. An exaggerated frown came onto his face and he looked at Mathias. Jesus nodded to him, as if he was offering congratulations. He then let his gaze move over to the Herodians. He looked into Saul’s eyes seriously. Saul looked amused and held his gaze. Jesus slowly looked at Saul’s hair and clothing. He looked down Saul’s robes to his expensive sandals and then back up again. Then he turned to the man who had asked the question.

“Yes, an excellent question. A very good question. Particularly since we are in the presence of some who are so dedicated to the love of God and the keeping of the Law. And others who are..." He glanced at the Herodians "...equally passionate about the laws of Rome.”

Jesus lifted his chin so that it was obvious he was addressing the crowd.

“And I shall give them an answer. Yes, I shall. But first, does anyone happen to have one of those coins we use to pay our taxes to Rome? The silver denarius. You know the one.”

The crowd whispered. Some muttered and others allowed their faces to show their disgust.

One of the Herodians stepped forward and held a coin out to Jesus.

“Thank you, good sir. We are fortunate that the Pharisees and their Herodian friends have brought one of the coins in question with them. And he had it so readily available. Right there in his pocket; just like that.”

Many in the crowd laughed and whispered to each other. The Pharisees looked uncomfortable and embarrassed. A couple of them inched farther away from the Herodians.

Jesus reached for the coin but then pulled his hand back suddenly. He fumbled in his robe until he found a small cloth. He waved it to the crowd, and then took the coin from the man with the cloth, being very careful not to let it touch his hands.

“I don’t carry these coins myself, of course. Don’t even like to touch them, what with the second commandment and all. So I’m glad these gentlemen had one handy.”

The crowd burst into laughter. The Pharisees’ faces darkened with anger, and they shifted their weight back and forth uncomfortably.

Jesus turned and mounted the raised platform again.

“I wanted to look at the coin so we could see whose face is on it. Whose face is this anyway?”

Jesus acted as though he had never seen a silver denarius before. One of the Herodians said, “Caesar’s.”

Jesus looked surprised. “Oh, Caesar.” He looked at the head on the coin. He turned it over and saw the image of a woman seated on a throne. “And this must be his lovely mother Livia on the other side.” He turned his head slightly and made a mock spitting sound, “Ptuh, ptuh ptuh.” The crowd roared again. One older man laughed so hard he began to choke. A friend pounded him on the back, causing another wave of laughter to rise from the crowd.

Jesus motioned with his hands to quiet everyone, as if the crowd was being rude and he was trying to get them to be a little more polite.

“Now now, please.”

When the crowd was silent, Jesus looked directly toward the ten men.

“Well then, why don’t you give to Caesar what belongs to Caesar, and give to God what belongs to God.”

He tossed the coin back toward the ten men. The pharisees backed away from the flying coin. One of the Herodians caught it and held it defiantly in his fist. Jesus fell silent and stood staring at the men. The people in the crowd stared at them as well. The men waited to see if Jesus had anything else to say. He did not.

There was no easy way to leave. That became apparent, so the men turned a few at a time, trying to look dignified, and walked away. As the last of them was leaving, Jesus called out.

“Mathias!”

Mathias stopped and turned around.

“I know you, and I know your family. You’re better than this. And you’re not the sort of man who would normally cast his lot with the Herodians. There are some things more polluting even than the Romans and their money. Think on these things.”

Mathias stared back at Jesus. He licked his lips once, started to say something, then turned and walked away.

rlp

Information for those not familiar with the gospels or the culture of that day

This story is found in all three synoptic gospels. My dramatization draws upon all three. There are only subtle differences to be found in them.

Matthew 22:15-22
Mark 12:13-17 
Luke 20:20-26

The Pharisees were religious conservatives, we might say, while the Herodians were supporters of the very secular King Herod, who was a Jew, but in name only.

Some scholars think that the Jewish people of that time were in a bind when it came to Roman taxes. Rome required that they pay taxes, among them a poll tax. Rome issued a special silver denarius for that particular tax. This coin has the head of Caesar on one side and a picture of his mother on the other. An inscription around the head said that Caesar was divine, making this an idol and a clear violation of the Second Commandment, which prohibits making graven images of God. Everyone probably paid the tax, but there was a lot of theoretical discussion about whether or not doing so put one in violation of their religious laws.

The Jewish Jubilee Year was supposed to come at the end of every 49 years. Every seventh day was a sabbath day, every seventh year a sabbath year, and every 49 years a Jubilee. The Jubilee year was to be marked by some fairly radical moves toward justice, including this unusual practice: All lands returned to their original owners. This kept all the wealth and power from accumulating in the hands of a few. So even if a poor family lost their land and had to pay rent to use it, in the Jubilee year they would get their land back. I have read that it is unclear whether the Jubilee year was ever actually practiced. The economic chaos that would have occurred might have prevented this from actually happening. Even if it was not practiced, the Jubilee year would still have been a symbol of future justice.

The joke I have Jesus telling is not in the original accounts. But it allows me to emphasize how strange it would have been for Pharisees and Herodians to be together. And original hearers of this story would likely have known that. It would almost have to be the Jubilee Year for Pharisees and Herodians to be working together.

-------

Part one:

Saul was dressed in an expensive, imported robe. He was obviously a wealthy man. His hair gleamed and was heavy with Persian oil. His beard was trimmed short in a manner that was trendy among local Romans. He wore expensive jewelry, including a number of rings. One of them bore the mark of King Herod Antipas, for Saul was an official in his court. He stood with several other Herodians outside of Antipas’ palace in Jerusalem.

A group of Pharisees wearing simply adorned but elegant robes came down the street. They were huddled closely together and avoided contact with anyone walking near them. Their heads were wrapped with leather bands holding phylactery boxes on their foreheads. Their beards were long and flowing, as were the tassels dangling from the corners of their robes. They slowed as they approached Saul and the men with him. The two groups looked at each other warily.

Saul stepped forward and held out his forearm to one of the Pharisees, inviting a Roman handshake. He was refused, as expected. He winked at his friends.

“Hello Mathias.”

One of the Pharisees, apparently the leader, nodded.

Saul continued. “We don’t see you in this part of town often. I hope you didn’t brush against any loose women on your way here or dirty your clean robes on our common streets.”

The men behind him laughed, and the faces of the Pharisees tightened. Mathias spoke sharply in response.

“Always making jokes, Saul. Just like when we were boys, and you laughed after being thrown out of the synagogue for acts of wanton profanity. Still whoring for the Romans, are you? Still have your nose up the ass of that jackal Herod, may God smite him and all such lawbreakers and traitors.”

Several of the Herodians put their hands on their swords and stepped forward. The Pharisees neither laughed nor made any defensive move. They stood motionless. Saul held up his hand. He spoke a few sentences in Latin to the men behind him, and they relaxed. He turned back to Mathias with a smile on his face.

“Let us put this aside for now and deal with the problem at hand. We have considered the matter, and I think we have the perfect solution.”

He reached into a belt and pulled out a coin. He flipped it toward Mathias, who caught it, looked at it in his palm, and then dropped it as if it had burned him. The Pharisees looked at the silver denarius laying in the dust and took a step away from it. Mathias looked enraged, but he swallowed hard and forced a calm expression on his face.

“I’ll have to go home and wash now before I enter the Temple. Thank you so much, Saul. Is it not enough that you abandon the faith of our fathers? Do you also have to ridicule and pollute those of us who remain true to God?”

Saul stepped forward and retrieved the coin. He tossed it in the air and caught it again.

“All that fuss over a coin with the head of Caesar on it. It is not an idol. It is legal tender. Your religious ways are hopelessly outdated and irrelevant in the modern world. Still, it is precisely this reaction that will allow us to trap him. We’ll all go together to the temple tomorrow. Jesus will undoubtedly be speaking to his rabble near there. You can simply ask him if it is permissible under the law of Moses to pay taxes to Caesar or not. If he says yes, you can blather on about how he’s gone soft on the Roman question, or how he breaks the commandments without a second thought. Whatever you want to say. You can spin it however you like.”

“And if he says that it is not lawful to handle this money at all, much less pay taxes with it?”

Saul grinned. Malice glittered in his eyes.

“Then I will have him scourged and in the court before Herod within the hour. And that will be the last that anyone will hear from Jesus of Nazareth.”

rlp

My Christmas books are now available at Jeanene's jewelry website. She's handling the shipping on the books this year, so you can buy them there.

She also has some really nice items now. Jeanene is making her own jewelry parts now, hammering them from

metal and soldering them. Very cool stuff.

rlp

Jeanene and I are still in Fort Worth. We fly home at 1:45 pm.

It was a fascinating thing for me to preach in the Broadway pulpit. Broadway Baptist Church is probably the closest thing to a cathedral you'll find among Texas Baptists. I'm used to preaching behind a battered black music stand that a local high school band teacher gave me. The nearest person is about 10 feet away. It's a more casual setting. Suddenly I was on this big stage behind a wrap-around pulpit with a microphone in my face. My words echoed in the huge room and came back to me.

It was...different. I probably should have prepared a manuscript and read it. But it went okay, I think. Not my best sermon, but okay. We stayed around afterward and reconnected with friends from the moderate to liberal Baptist crowd in Texas. Most Baptists don't want to own the liberal tag, but I don't mind it. I don't really care about labels much. Call me whatever you want.

I did remember a funny story from my past. Jeanene and I joined Broadway Baptist Church in 1984, our first year of seminary. We were both from more "low church" worship traditions. I had never heard of Advent. The first Sunday of Advent that year, I noticed the Advent wreath down front. I had never seen one before. I leaned over to Jeanene and said, "You'd think a big fancy church like this could afford 4 MATCHING candles!"

Yeah. I love that story. I love that I was that naive and innocent. And I love that Broadway was our first introduction to a larger world. It was an honor for me to preach there last night.

rlp

Broadway sanctuary with its world-class organ.

So you think you want to try Christianity, huh? You’ve been casting about for some system of belief for years. You have what we might call a spiritual itch, and you’d like to try and scratch it. Only there are a few problems.

First, you aren’t sure if you believe in God. It’s an intellectual problem, really. You just aren’t sure if there IS a God. And if there is, you’re not sure you would trust the Bible to teach you anything about that God.

Second, you don’t know anything about the practice of Christianity, and you don’t even know where to start. What church should you attend? Who should you listen to? What exactly would be required of you? How much would you need to do so you could honestly say you gave it a try?

To start things off, you are now officially one of my favorite people. I don’t know why this is, and I don’t feel like unpacking it right now, but some of my favorite people don’t believe in God but are looking for something spiritual. Perhaps. Kind of open to the idea. Kind of in a maybe state about the whole God thing. Kind of sort of.

I love people like that. And my experience is that they are often incredibly nice, kind, open to new ideas. Just cool people.

I wish we could start things off for you with a big convention of misfit spiritual thinkers. That’s always been a fantasy of mine anyway. It would be mostly agnostics with some seriously troubled and doubting Christians thrown in the mix. We’d get rooms in a hotel somewhere and meet during the day to talk about God, the absence of God, the meaning of life, whether or not there IS a meaning of life. That kind of stuff. No one would think anyone else is going to hell. So we could all relax about that. At night we would drink beer, watch movies, and sit around laughing. We might play some pranks around the hotel. I’m not saying we would; I’m not saying we wouldn’t. But pranks would definitely be on the table and open for discussion.

Yeah, that would be nice. It probably won’t happen though. A lot of people who would want to be there couldn’t afford to go or couldn’t get away. That would bum me out. Plus, I tend to come up with cool ideas, but I’m not so good with the follow-up detail work. I’m pretty lousy at that, actually. I haven’t even picked up my dirty clothes from yesterday. They’re behind the door in the bathroom. So what, I’m going to organize some huge convention thing now?

Still, it’s a nice thought, right?

So anyway, back to the whole “So you want to try Christianity” thing I was talking about. We won’t be able to kick this off with a convention, so you’ll probably need to find a church.

Hoo boy, this is going to be hard. Um, don’t go to a Baptist church. I say this in love, as a Baptist myself, but the odds of you finding a bunch of Baptists who would be excited to hear about your agnostic, quasi-spiritual journey are about a thousand to one.

Try...oh...I don’t know...the Episcopal Church. I’ve always thought they were the smartest Christians, exceptions duly noted of course. And they’re used to dealing with cerebral questions of ontological and existential meaning, like “Should we keep having this prayer service even though no one shows up anymore?”

My Episcopalian brothers and sisters would treat you right. Maybe. Some of them would.

Okay, so I have two suggestions for you on this journey. Both of them are insanely unorthodox, from a Christian perspective. Don’t worry. I’ll handle all the objections and outrage from the brothers and sisters. And you don’t know any better, so you’ll be fine with these.

First, it’s okay that you don’t believe in God. What can you do about that anyway, except be honest about it? Hell, I don’t believe in God myself sometimes. I come and go with that one. Sometimes life seems rather bleak, and I just can’t see it, you know? I want to. Just can’t. But mostly I believe in God now. Mostly.

It’s okay. You’re really looking for a spiritual practice anyway. Whether or not you end up believing in God isn’t important right now. I’ve always thought that what you do with your life and your body is more important than what you say and think. You’re curious and open. That’s all you need, because anywhere you begin is a good place to be.

Second - and this one is counter-intuitive - you should understand that prayer and worship and all that ritual stuff will be very important to you, since you're not sure if you believe in God. You won’t have any nice, lovey-dovey God feelings to sustain you, so you’ll need to lean into what you have. Show up and do the singing and praying and liturgy stuff. Enjoy the archetypal beauty of it. Let go and be ancient for awhile. Go to church. Talk to “God.” Talk to people you meet. Be about the journey and be listening. You’ll be fine.

And finally, this: If any church doesn’t treat you with complete respect and hospitality while you hang around there, trying things out and listening for any voice you might hear, send me an email. Send me an email, and it will be ass-kicking time!

Not really. I’m not actually sure how to kick ass, to be honest. Do you literally have to kick someone in the ass? Anyway, that’s not my style. But we could bitch about it together, I guess.

And who knows? Maybe the two of us will get motivated to organize that agnostic/misfit-Christian convention thing. I’m thinking Chicago would be a nice place.

Yeah, Chicago.

I would SO be there.

rlp

When Jeanene and I went to seminary in Fort Worth, we joined Broadway Baptist church. The worship was formal and smart for Baptists. The pastor, Cecil Sherman, was the same. Formal and smart. Broadway was about as "high church" as either of us had ever experienced. We loved it and remember those days fondly.

So I'm rather thrilled to get a chance to preach at Broadway this Sunday night. Service begins with dinner at 6:00. Worship kicks off around 7:00. If you're in the area and want to stop by and say hello, that would be fun.

This is kind of funny: I had planned on preaching from Matthew 22:15-22. And I JUST saw on their website that their interim pastor, Charlie Johnson, preached from that text a couple of weeks ago. Of course he did. They use the Lectionary. I keep forgetting there are other Baptists that do. So okay, I need to figure out something else to do. You'd think I would be worried about this. I'm not. It was nice to have everything set in my mind, but in my experience, little things like this often lead you to good places. They often lead you to the place you need to be.

rlp

And to any girl who needs a blessing.

Beloved daughter, we have arrived at the time of life where I cannot give you everything you want and need. We have come to the time where you must learn to walk alone. That is hard for me, but it is right and good. It is the way things should be.

Listen to me now, for there are things I want to tell you as you stand, trembling, on the edge of womanhood.

I know that boys have become fascinating and mysterious to you. They live in a strange world of their own, the world of young men. It is a world of new muscles and deepening voices. It is a world of astonishing energy and physical movement. I know your eyes are drawn to them. I know your heart beats faster when you watch them. And I know you dream of a boy who will love you.

I also know there are girls at school who giggle and fawn over the boys. They lean in close, laughing hysterically at something he said and letting their shoulders bump. They know how to let their hand rest gently on his shoulder or his thigh, just for a moment. Just long enough. No, I do not know where they learned to play this game so well.

Now, my young woman. Now have come the days of your choosing. You are both discovering and deciding what kind of woman you will be. You are deciding what of your life will be hidden and what you will show. Choose carefully, for what shames you now may serve you one day. And what serves you now may one day make you ashamed. Many girls will lose themselves in this time. They may find themselves again someday, but many years will be lost.

Hear me now, daughter, for my place in your life grows smaller every day. And I would give you a blessing while I am able. Come to me, because I know you. I know that you still sleep with your blanket. I saw the Dr. Seuss book laying beside your bed. I know you have one foot in each world. Come to me now and receive my blessing.

You are a strong young woman. Your mind is strong, as are your opinions. Strong and well-formed. You have not traded what is precious for what is fleeting, though life these days would have been easier in some ways if you had.

You are a tender young woman, compassionate and kind. You believe in goodness and work for it. You care about the feelings of others. You are a loyal and faithful friend. You are brave enough to trust others, and others are not afraid to trust you.

Your faith in God is not simple or falsely stated. Your understanding of God is a growing, hurting, questioning, struggling thing. This too is as it should be.

You are a young woman who knows what love is. You have been loved and are loved. You understand love and will settle for nothing less. You will accept no facsimile, reasonable or otherwise. Listen to your heart when it comes to love, because your heart is as soft now as it was when you were young and your heart rested gently in my hands. I guarded that heart as long as I could.

Those are the things I know about you. Here is what I think you should do:

Walk the halls of your school with your head held high. While others may worship at the altars of camouflage, conformity, and compromise, you stand above those shortcuts and soul slayers. Rise up, young woman, and do not be afraid. Rise up and be true to yourself. Let the strength of your presence transcend hair and clothing and music and boys. Let your true colors show in the halls and know that many in high school have scales on their eyes. They only see what they want to see. Many will not see you. There will be times when you walk the halls and feel invisible.

But here is a secret that I know. One boy will see you. He will see you in the middle of the noise and the energy and the hype and the crowds. He will see your strong walk and your eyes. He will listen to the answers you boldly call out in class. He will hear your voice and know your power. He will watch you until he knows you, and then his heart will fall into his stomach, for he will understand that there is only one like you.

Look for him. He is the only one that matters. Do not listen to boys who say they love you. Instead believe in the boy who wants to cherish you. If you hide now, ducking into the crowd like so many others, dressing and looking and acting and praying for safety, you might indeed be safe, but the only boy that matters will miss you. He will miss you because he is looking for a girl like no other. And you will have become just another girl in the crowd.

Your heart now rests in the hands of those who might hurt you. That’s hard for me, but it could not be any other way because you would not leave your heart in my hands. If I must give up your heart, then listen to my words.

Stand up. Stand out. Be smart and strong. It may be some time before you find the one who can appreciate who you are. So be it. Settle for nothing less. Because if your heart must rest in the hands of another man, I want him to be a man strong enough to love a strong woman.

Go into the world, my string of pearls. Go into the world and make me proud.

Daddy.

Here is the final part in the series of three. I posted these years ago but have rerun them and reworked part three extensively.

Part One
Part Two

In the spring of 2004, the serial killer known as BTK shocked experts around the world by reappearing after what were thought to be 20 years of dormancy. Because serial killers are almost always unable to stop killing once they start, it had been assumed that BTK was either dead or in prison. As it turns out, Dennis Rader had apparently gotten too old for the physical rigors of murder. He was married and gainfully employed, living in a suburb near Wichita. He was also the president of his church council. He seemed content to gaze upon the trophies of his past crimes and enjoy those memories.

In Radar’s first known crime he killed a family of four. All of their deaths were brutal, but one seemed especially so. He hung their 11-year-old daughter in the basement and became sexually aroused by this act.

Many crimes are understandable to the average person. We understand how someone who wants a computer might steal one. We understand how a man might cheat on his taxes or embezzle from his company because he wants money. We can even understand, somewhat, how an exhausted and inexperienced single mother might become enraged and violently shake her child. But we confront the limits of our understanding when we consider a man like Dennis Rader. We only know that his crimes were horrific. We do not understand how a man can become sexually aroused by the death throes of an 11-year-old girl. We don't know the nature of his condition or how he came to be this way, but any reasonable person will agree that something is not right inside him. It is the reality of this kind of human brokenness that gives rise to two paradoxes, the first social and the second theological.

The first paradox is that the more horrific the crimes of a killer, the angrier and more punitive we become as a society. When a serial killer is caught, novels are written about him. The details of his crime—often with pictures—are published in every newspaper and on the Internet. Our collective anger grows until it boils over. We talk of tough punishments around the water cooler at work. We say that no fate is too horrible for a monster like this. If the death penalty is available, we push for it, and it is granted. After some years, we put the killer to death in a public spectacle that attracts the same levels of news coverage and attention. Everyone sighs in relief. That's one killer who won't kill again.

In Dennis Rader's case, he was convicted of multiple murders. In each case he bound and tortured his victims. The death penalty was not available in his state at the time of his crimes, so he was sentenced to a maximum security prison. The length of his sentence is so long that parole is not a possibility. He now spends 23 hours a day in his cell. Isolation in such a setting is an extremely unpleasant and awful way to spend the remainder of your life. And yet this punishment was not enough for the district attorney's office. After he was convicted, sentenced, and incarcerated, they made several legal appeals to have all reading materials banned from his cell as well.

It was not enough that he sit alone in a cell for the next 30 years. They wanted him to sit in his cell with nothing to read.

The irony is obvious: the more horrible and unimaginable the crime, the more convinced we are that something is seriously wrong with the person who committed it. We call the person sick or crazy. We say that he is out of his mind. One would think that our desire for vengeance would be lessened by that fact. It is not. Our desire for vengeance in these cases is very primitive. We are like villagers sacrificing a person to appease an angry, evil god that we do not understand but fear greatly.

Another paradox is theological in nature. The most conservative Christians - the ones most convinced of a literal hell where flames will lick at the damned for all eternity - are often the ones who demand the death penalty for violent killers. They do this fully believing that these men will be tortured in hell for all eternity.

The vengeful desire behind this is completely contrary to the spirit of Christ, the one these Christians claim to serve. It would seem to any reasonable person that conservative Christians would be the ones most opposed to the death penalty and the most passionate about keeping these men alive. After all, if a man is alive, he might yet be saved from the fires of hell.

In the face of these paradoxes, I'd like suggest appropriate social and theological responses to serial killers and other violent psychopaths who put society at risk.

First, until we can confidently claim to understand what causes people to become a psychopathic killers, we have no business putting them to death or subjecting them to punitive punishments. They must be incarcerated for our protection, but their punishment should not be punitive beyond that. Since we cannot imagine how a person could simply choose to become a psychopath, it seems reasonable to admit there is a possibility that psychopathy has genetic or biological components. If such a thing is even possible, we owe these unfortunate individuals the dignity of limiting their punishment to simple incarceration and not subjecting them to further, punitive punishments.

“Mr. Rader, your actions indicate that you are bat-shit crazy. We have no idea what caused you to become a psychopath, but we can’t let you run around killing people. So I’m afraid you’re going to have to stay in a maximum security prison for the rest of your life. However, since it is likely that you are the unfortunate winner of a dark, genetic lottery, here’s a few magazines and a list of available books in the prison library. And yes, you can watch Oprah a couple of times a week.”

It's not going to hurt anyone to allow Dennis Rader to occupy his mind while he sits in isolation. And though our anger tempts us to desire more punitive punishments, the truth is, no one is going to find peace in knowing that he is deprived of such occupations.

My second thought is specifically for my Christian brothers and sisters, whom I pray will listen to me, for I speak these words only from a desire to do what is right and to follow in the spirit of Christ. We should never support the death penalty for any reason, if only because our spiritual tradition teaches that redemption is possible for anyone. True, the prospect for emotional well-being for these men is slim, but spiritual redemption is more than that. We have to believe that even Dennis Radar has a spark of humanity in him and could therefore seek and find some measure of forgiveness.

This is why we say Christ had to die for our sins. Not to pay back an angry God, but because that is the ancient story that makes clear the cost of setting things right again. Do you believe what you preach, or don’t you? If so, the way you treat even the least of these should reflect the words of your beloved gospel.

David Berkowitz, the Son of Sam killer, became a Christian while in prison. Those who know him say that this conversion was sincere. He wrote letters to the families of his victims, not asking for forgiveness but promising them that he would never seek parole. He said the comforting knowledge that he was never going to leave prison was the only thing he could give them.

He has not shown up for a parole hearing since writing those letters.

The kind of Christianity that spoke to David Berkowitz is the most conservative, simple, and seemingly unsophisticated evangelical Christianity. Perhaps this is because men like David Berkowitz once dealt in blood. Having seen human blood flow, they know the power of the central Christian story. It speaks their language, we might say.

The saddest irony is that conservative Christians who once called for his death also had the gospel language that finally spoke to David Berkowtiz’s heart.

rlp

David Berkowitz's website. It is maintained by his friends.

Wikipedia article

I've just posted a little piece on politics at CCblogs, along with a hilarious video that will amuse all philosophy majors and other ridiculously over-educated people.

I know, I'm making you click to see it. I apologize. I admit I do want you to check out CCblogs, the blogging community I began with Christian Century. If you have comments or can provide links to other humorous political ads, leave them there and we'll try to engage some new people in our conversation.

On Saturday Jeanene and I took the three sisters to the Corn Maze in Hondo, Texas. It is just one example of the apparently burgeoning corn maze industry. These mazes are generally located in out-of-the way rural places like Lingle Wyoming, Chickasha Oklahoma, and Hondo.

I like small-town events like corn mazes and such things. I'm amazed at what we humans will do if we become bored. I'll admit that when I was younger I might have made fun of a corn maze. But now I've entered a season of life where I enjoy simple things. These mazes are wonderful examples of rural life. And now that Reiley is almost 20, if I can get away with all three girls and Jeanene, I'll go to a corn maze or a possum festival or even a moonshine shindig. I'm not particular.

Hondo is about an hour west of San Antonio. It's an interesting town if only for the sign that warns out-of-town motorists to respect the speed limit.

Located at the Graff family farm, the Hondo corn maze has developed into quite a little enterprise. There are games and activities for everyone. Most of the activities are rather simple and precious in their own way. It's amazing how much fun people have jumping, sliding, or just rolling around in hay.

Buying tickets

Rubber duck races with a cow trough, old pumps, and rain gutters

Jumping on hay: fun for all ages

A slide made out of what looks like culvert pipe

And of course, the classic propane-powered corn cannon

But the highlight of the afternoon was the corn maze itself. It's surprisingly complex. During the day you can kind of see over the corn and keep your bearings, but at night, well, that's another matter. They say there's a one-eyed crazy man who's been wandering the Hondo maze since aught 2.

This sign made me so happy. I'm still smiling about it

Lillian in the maze

We all ran into the maze and wandered around looking for each other. After dark we had flashlights and popped out from behind cornstalks trying to scare each other. I always seemed to know where I was, which was highly suspicious considering I have a terrible sense of direction. I got lost the other day driving to our local grocery store. (Absolutely a true story). My secret? Before we went into the maze I snapped a picture of the Hondo maze postcard and carried it around in my digital camera. Heh.

So that's what we did on Saturday. Drove to Hondo. Laughed at the goofy corn stuff. Ate some of the goofy corn stuff. Ran around in the maze. Drove home. And all three sisters were with us, which makes me very happy.

I am aware of time these days. Most notably, it's quick passing. Time with the three sisters is growing short. Reiley is still at home only because she is going to a local college. She could fly the coop at any time. And on that day, the season with the three sisters will be over. Oh, we'll get together all of our lives, I'm sure. But it won't be the same after they leave.

So I'm incredibly thankful for the Hondo corn maze. Anything that gets me together with my girls is very a good thing.

rlp

This is the fourth and final video in the hell series. I offer some thoughts and suggest a different way to think about the issue. It is my opinion that we shouldn’t waste time talking about hell in detail, other than in speculative conversations. I don’t think we have enough information about heaven to speak much of it either. Christians should concentrate on this present life, leaving questions about the after-life aside.

Forgive the off-the-cuff manner of these videos. I didn’t have scripts, and I did them in one take. No cutting and splicing. I know that in the second video, when speaking about the book of Revelation, I accidentally said that those who worship the Beast are the ones included in the Lamb’s book of life. Obviously I said that wrong. These videos were meant to be conversational, as if you and I were sitting across the table from one another. Of course, in person I would hope to do a little less of the talking.

Some have asked if I would put all of this into writing. I wouldn’t mind doing that, but I don’t know how to find the time. I need to move on to other things. If someone is interested in writing a summary, I’ll post it here (after going through it of course), credit you, and provide a link to your blog.

A short aside for conservative evangelical types: I went to the scriptures. I did the work. You can say a lot of things about me, but you cannot say that I do not take the Bible seriously. If you have anything to say about who takes the Bible seriously and who does or does not "believe" in the Bible, you ought to at least match my work and effort in this regard. If you disagree, prepare your own scripture study and present it. Send me a link, and I'll check it out. If you cannot build a solid New Testament case for what you've been saying about hell, you should not be saying it. You should tremble in fear to have said such things about God without clear scriptural authority. This is the claim you make, coming out of the Reformation. Sola Scriptura. I'm simply asking you to live by it.

Here is a short summary of my view:

The New Testament does speak of a place called Gehenna or Hades, commonly translated as hell. It is a place of punishment or judgment. Details about the nature of this place are not given. My conclusion is that not enough information is revealed for us to talk much about hell, much less allow it to occupy a central a place in our theology and preaching.

If there is a hell, it seems to be a place for religious hypocrites. The OVERWHELMING New Testament witness is that hell is where bad and hypocritical people go. The idea that hell is a place for people who do not accept Jesus as their savior is simply not in the New Testament. If you are going to believe in hell, believe also in what Jesus said about who is going there.

I think the evidence from the behavior of Jesus, the disciples, and Paul indicates that they didn’t seem overly concerned about the eternal fate of people around the world from other cultures and other religious traditions. I think Christians are called to talk about their faith with no shame, but it ought to be in the context of friendship and the free exchange of ideas. We need not carry around any fear or anxiety about the fate of people after they die.

In short: love God, live well, love your neighbor, tell the story of your faith when it comes up naturally in the course of friendship and conversation, and trust God with what happens after this life.

The Hell Video Series:

The spreadsheet of New Testament passages.

rlp

Here is my third video on hell. I give my thoughts on what the New Testament says about hell.

It now appears that I'm going to need a fourth video. I think Christians have been thinking about hell in the wrong way and asking the wrong questions about it. In the last video I'll suggest a new way to approach this subject.

rlp

I’ve been writing at Real Live Preacher without stopping since December 6th, 2002. No one would do this unless they were compelled to do it for some reason. Why would someone write this much? I don’t know. Because you have to, I guess. I feel committed to the writer’s life, which is about doing the work. Times will change; you will change; you will go through “periods” and ups and downs. Through it all you keep laying it down on paper. You don’t ask why, in part because you don’t want to know why. It’s probably not emotionally healthy to write this much. But time spent wondering why you write is time you could have spent writing, so who has time to think about it?

The world of a writer is a private world. No one knows what you give to this. No one knows your little quirks and techniques. It’s just you inside your head, trying to figure out what is in there, trying to understand what it means and how you can express it with words. And trying to know what should and should not be made public. You have to push the envelope on that last one. You need to be daring if you want to be honest. But that also means sometimes you’ll go too far. When you do it’s embarrassing, but you go on. You can’t look back.

The world of a writer is also a changing world. Everything changes. And when things change, your writing changes. And it’s not like you can control that. My early writing was more open and free, more risky and honest in many ways. Of course it was; I had nothing to worry about. No one knew who I was. And now that’s not true. It hasn’t been true since 2004, but I’m still struggling with the implications and what this does to my writing. I mean, suddenly people act like my opinion matters. Why? It never did before. I was an unknown pastor of a quirky little church in San Antonio back then. I’m still the pastor of that quirky little church in San Antonio. What the hell am I doing writing stuff for the Christian Century and going around talking to people and shit? Like I suddenly know things.

I cannot wrap my mind around that. I cannot understand it. It doesn’t fit into my head.

Occasionally I look through the old stuff I wrote. Most of it isn't even accessible on this newest version of Real Live Preacher. It’s going to cost money to import the essays from 2002 to 2007 into this blog, so I keep putting it off. I don’t know, maybe part of me thinks the old stuff belongs on the old blog. Maybe subconsciously I don’t want it mixing with the new stuff. Probably not. Maybe. I don’t know. Who knows? But that old stuff makes me sad when I look at it because I can feel the passion in it. I miss the emotional rush when I would finish a paragraph and be breathing hard or maybe even crying. I miss that, and I don’t know how to find my way back to it. I worked a lot of things out in the process of writing them down. I never knew where anything was going to end up. That’s harder when you are a professional writer. There’s money on the line, and I am currently the main income source for our family. So I don’t have the luxury to pass up more formal writing opportunities.

You know I regularly get email from people who are quite forthcoming in telling me that they liked the old Real Live Preacher better.

I know, right? I wouldn’t sent that email to a writer either, but people do.

Hey, I miss the old RLP too. It’s just hard to find him again. Maybe impossible. It’s not like I’ve been able to control any of this stuff.

So recently I’ve been looking at Real Live Preacher, and even I’m bored with it. It just doesn’t look exciting to me. Same old banner and menus. Ho hum. Yawn. I look at a lot of blogs these days. I make part of my living working with a couple of blog networks. Real Live Preacher is starting to feel like just another blog to me. It feels like work.

That's heartbreaking for me. Like I’ve lost something precious.

And I’m entering a season of need. I can feel that need in me. I want to grab my computer and run away with it to some lonely place. I can imagine myself in some secret location, far away from anyone who knows me, pounding away on the keyboard. I imagine myself being so happy because it feels so good to get stuff out of me and also to figure out exactly what that stuff is. Writing always did both of those for me.

Oh, hold on a second.

Wait wait wait wait wait.

I just realized what’s going on. Yes, I get it now.

I miss you.

That’s what it is. I miss you. I used to think of “you” as roughly 50 people out there, 50 being an manageable number of people to think about. You were like my secret friends. I could always talk to you, and that’s pretty much why I used to write.

I see it now. That’s it. I’ve lost my voice.

Voice is the most mysterious and interesting part of writing. A writer has a voice. I think of it as the personality you feel when you read the writer’s words. You feel it more than you know it, this nebulous “person” that the words reveal. And my best writing voice was always the “me” that came out when I felt like I was writing to “you.” Does that makes sense? Well, it does to me.

Damn, I can see it so clearly now.

Yeah.

Well... I don’t really know what to do about this. My temptation is to blurt out a promise, like a New Year’s resolution. “I will now go back to the way I used to write.” But if I say that I’m afraid I’ll just let myself down. Maybe I can’t write like that anymore. It’s not like I planned to write this today and have any answers.

I need to think about this. I’m going to try to get away by myself and walk around and think. Yeah, I’ll probably write something more about this maybe in a day or two.

I must say though, it has been REALLY nice talking to you. I’ve missed all 50 of you. I hope it’s not unhealthy or weird that I have a mob of strangers for my imaginary friend, because I like it.

And I want that again. I need it again.

rlp

Here is my second video in the series on hell. In this video, I simply want to record what the New Testament has to say about hell. I give no personal interpretation on the matter. In going through all of your emails and my own study, I created a spreadsheet which you might find helpful. You can get a .pdf version here.

Note: I chose not to deal with a number of passages where, at the end of parables or teachings, Jesus refers to a place of darkness where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth. My thinking was this: If you are going to come to an understanding of what the New Testament says about hell, you need to deal with the instances where words translated as hell are used. If you can't make a case for your view of hell with the actual words gehenna and hades, you won't be able to build it on these ambiguous sayings of Jesus. But if you want to find them, run a search through the gospels for "darkness" "weeping" and "gnashing."

One more note: I mention "hadoo" several times. This is the gentive case of the word which is always used, (h)adou. Having read it this way, I just used that form.

Today is Blog Action Day. I encourage you to check out the website.

For years I struggled with the idea of poverty. I fought with the big questions, the hows and the whys. I felt deep guilt. It seemed to me that Jesus was pretty passionate about helping the poor. Was I doing enough? Probably not.

In my 40s I finally learned to think small when it comes to poverty. I wrote an article about this for Blog Action Day. You can find it at the High Calling Blog Network if you would like to read it.

There are a lot of bloggers out there. We're telling our stories of poverty today.

rlp

Part Three of Three

This is the final piece of a three-part story. For those keeping score, this story takes place in 1999 when Foy Davis was married and the rector of a small Episcopal church in San Antonio.

Part one.

Part Two

The alarm went off at 4:30 am on Sunday morning. Foy was already awake, laying on his back staring up into the darkness and listening to the gentle sound of the ceiling fan. He flopped his right arm onto the nightstand and fumbled around for the clock. He turned it off and sat on the side of the bed. A feeling of sorrow and dread came over him. It was a heavy feeling. He tilted his head back and relaxed his jaw so that his mouth popped open. He exhaled slowly, blowing air from his lungs with an audible sound.

He shuffled into the bathroom and got in the shower. He moved through the motions of bathing with robotic precision. His face was completely slack and showed no emotion. He shaved, dressed, and stooped to tie the laces on his shoes. The last pull on the laces always marked a strange transition.

It’s time to be thinking right. It’s time to get where you need to be.

Foy stood in the door of the bathroom, a dark figure against the light behind him. Light spilled onto the lower half of the bed. His eyes followed a series of lumps that resembled a small mountain range, leading up out of the light, bending and turning to end in a mass of hair pressed into a pillow. He watched Jenny in silence. She breathed in silently but exhaled with a heaving force, each breath like a deep sigh. She was huddled in a fetal position with her back toward the center of the bed. Foy felt a momentary flash of emotion because she looked so child-like. But then her posture made him think that she was trying to get as far away from him as possible, even in her sleep. He quickly left the bedroom. Those thoughts weren’t getting him where he needed to be.

The house was dark and quiet. He felt his way through the living room furniture and into the kitchen. He opened the door to the refrigerator, and the light made him squint. He scanned the contents, subconsciously hoping for some unexpected treat to be there. Then he realized that he wasn’t hungry, and he didn’t even know why he had opened the refrigerator in the first place. He closed the door, picked up his briefcase, and left the house. Summer was passing and the air was surprisingly cool for San Antonio. Orion was up in the early morning, along with all the winter constellations. He stared at them and felt himself relax. The stars were his silent, watching friends. Never changing. Neither his birth nor his death, not his life, his sorrow, or his joy would move them. This was religion in its oldest and purest form. No rules. Just this reality: you are very small and insignificant. He nodded briefly at the stars, finding a strange pleasure in their total disregard of his life. This primitive act of worship helped him. It got him a little closer to where he needed to be.

“It’s going to be okay,” he said out loud.

As he pulled his car onto the street, he turned on the radio. One of the stations had an early morning infomercial on. They were selling some herbal pills that were supposed to help your joints. He listened but didn’t pay much attention. He just liked the voices in the background. He drove through the dark streets until he turned into the parking lot of the church. He shut off the engine, and the voices from the radio died along with the the motor. The sound of his car door closing was so harsh in the quiet cool of early morning that he winced. His shoes crunched through loose bits of gravel and asphalt as he walked toward the church. When he stepped onto the sidewalk the sound of his footsteps grew softer. He fumbled briefly with his keys and put one into the lock of an old wooden door that opened directly into the back of the sanctuary. It was not a door that many people used, but the church was so old that ministers coming and going a few times a week had worn the door over many years. The wood and the hinges and the stone frame had been anchored together for so long that they seemed fused into one substance. The door was heavy. He pushed it inward, and the smell of an old church building hit him. A slightly musty smell mixed with wood and stone and aging fabric and a thousand other things. Foy paused and drew the smell into his nose deliberately. He liked the smell, and it got him another step closer to where he needed to be. For a moment he felt like a shaman priest of old, standing in the darkness amidst the pleasing odor of ancient things. The tiny glow from the Christ candle was the only visible light. It throbbed gently casting a faint pattern on the back wall. Foy turned on a light that shone down from the rafters onto the pulpit area. He never turned on all the lights in the sanctuary at once. The very idea of a sudden burst of light in this place was horrifying to him. Even this small amount of light was bad. The magic was broken.

“Get busy, hired man,” the lights seemed to say. “You have work to do, and you are nowhere near the place you need to be.”

Foy made a rumbling sound in his throat as a general expression of displeasure.

He walked down the center aisle toward the back of the church, looking right and left between the pews. He put a few hymnals and Books of Common Prayer back into their holders and picked up a few sheets of discarded paper. He checked the bathrooms in the foyer to make sure they were clean. Then he headed through the hall back to his office. He made some final changes to the order of worship and printed it. He stood by the printer looking at the first copy of the order of worship while the rest of the pages shot out with a rhythmic noise. He folded each one in half on a large work table near Judy’s desk. He folded paper with the casual ease of a task worked deep into muscle memory over many years. When the entire stack was folded, he bounced it on the table a few times to bring the sheets in line, then laid them flat on the table. He pressed the heels of his hands down on the folded side, forcing a perfect crease into the entire stack. Then he got his sermon notes from his office and headed back to the sanctuary. He put the orders of worship on a table in the foyer.

These small tasks had driven away most of his emotions. It felt good to feel nothing. Now he could turn his full attention to the sermon, which was the only thing he felt he could control on a Sunday morning. He went up the steps to the platform and stood in the pulpit. He looked out into the pews, but it was too dark. The lights in the sanctuary had a dimmer switch. Foy raised the lights just enough so he could see the pews. But the room was still dim enough to feel soft. Everything needed to be soft in the beginning. That helped him get where he needed to be.

Standing behind the pulpit, he breathed deeply and began his sermon.

“Today’s text is a wonderful story from the gospels. If you’ve been in church for many years, you’ll recognize it of course. And like all the gospel stories, it brings out the humanity of the disciples with a wonderful and simple clarity. For they struggled with the same things we struggle with. In this case they were wondering how many times we should forgive people who constantly hurt us. And that is a very real question, especially for those of us who have been hurt and wounded and find ourselves both desiring love and friendship, but also afraid of the inevitable pain that comes with it.”

Foy stopped speaking and looked out at the pews, thinking intently. He bent his head and wrote on his sermon notes. He pulled a clean sheet of paper from a stack he kept behind the pulpit and wrote more things there. He spoke and wrote and walked back and forth, mumbling to himself and occasionally speaking aloud to an imaginary congregation. He worked his way through the entire sermon. Pausing and writing and changing and memorizing. Eventually the light of dawn shone through the windows, revealing dust in the air and details of the room. The clock on the back wall was now visible. It was 7:55.

Foy had been completely lost in his sermon preparation. Lost in the talking and thinking and performing of it. The peace of that absolute focus had gotten him almost to the place where he needed to be. Sorrow was gone; so was fear. What could be done was done. What could not be done was left undone. There was a certain peace that came with accepting this.

He strode purposefully back to his office and made changes to his sermon notes on the computer, printed a fresh copy, and put it between the pages of his Bible, marking the location of the text.

“It is finished,” he said with an audible sigh of relief. A smile crept onto his face. He was just about where he needed to be.

Foy sat in his office, waiting for the arrival of the early comers. He took deep breaths and enjoyed the silence. The clock on his desk ticked away. Outside he could hear cars driving by as the world came alive. His breathing grew soft and regular. He lost all feeling in his hands and body as he floated in a prayer-like state. He closed one eye and held his thumb in front of his face until it blocked his view of the clock. He opened that eye and shut the other one, watching his thumb jump to the left. The clock said 8:30. He did this a number of times, watching his thumb jump back and forth. Suddenly he stood up and ran to the sanctuary. He walked among the pews until he found his Nerf football laying on the floor where it had landed on Friday. He threw it through the open door at the back.

“Yes, Johnny Unitas. Johnny U.”

Foy ran up the center aisle and into the foyer. He scooped up the ball and tucked it under his arm. He dodged back and forth as he ran down the hall and burst through the door to the office area. He feinted hard to the left and then ran by Judy’s desk, swiveling his hips away as if it were trying to tackle him. He slowed down and trotted into his office. He stood there, breathing hard and smiling. He dropped the football to the floor and sat back down. The words of the text came to him and he spoke them aloud.

“How many times shall you forgive your brother? Not seven times, I say, but seventy times seven.”

He spoke the text again, but this time the words were different, and he did not know where they came from.

“How many times can you bind the strong man and plunder his house? Seven times? No, but I say to you, seventy times seven and every Sunday morning until the end of the ages.”

Foy heard the main door to the church open. There were faint voices and rustling people noises.

It’s probably the Camerons.

He listened and caught the sound of the Cameron children fighting over something. Foy grabbed a handful of hard candy from a box near his desk and stuffed it into his pocket. He walked out of the office area and around a corner. As he turned, a smile appeared on his face. He held out his arms and Hannah Cameron came running to him. She wrapped her arms around his knees and looked up. Foy pulled a piece of candy from his pocket and gave it to her. Steven was older and more subdued, but he wanted the candy too. He gave Foy a hug and was rewarded with a piece.

Doris Cameron saw him and said, “Good morning.”

Foy watched her face intently. Her good morning seemed a little forced to him. He knew It was hard to get children dressed and off to church, especially for a single mom.

Foy put his arms around her arms and gave her a respectful, sideways hug.

“I am SO glad to see you this morning,” he said.

And as far as he could tell, he really was.

rlp

Video 1 of 3

I recently wrote about hell and asked for your input. I got a lot of emails. I've gone through all of them. This is the first of three videos in which I'll discuss what I've discovered and my final conclusions.

As is my tradition, I've limited this video to 6 minutes.

Part Two of Three
Click here to read part one.

In the early part of the week, Foy kept picturing Jesus standing with Peter. He ran the scene a number of ways in his mind.

“So how many times are we supposed to forgive? I mean, you have to admit there must be an ending point. So, I don’t know, some people say like four times maybe? Seems like you want a little more than that. Maybe seven times?”

“No no. Putting a number on it is not…that’s not the way of…okay, you want a number? All right. How about seventy times seven. There you go, there’s a number for you.”

“What? That’s like…” Peter’s lips moved and he touched the fingertips of his left hand with his right index finger, one after the other. “That’s like…way… a lot. Hundreds. Like more than 400.”

***

“How about seventy times seven? Like that? There’s a number for you, Peter.”

“What? That’s, that’s, that’s….that’s a lot of them. A lot of times. Let’s see, seven times…49, uh…”

“It’s 490 times,” said Matthew, stepping forward. “Four. Hundred. Ninety. Times. You know what that would be like? Guy punches you in the nose one morning. You say, ‘Ouch, dammit that hurt.’ He says, ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ You say, ‘S’okay, I forgive you.’ The next day he does the same thing. ‘Bam, ouch, sorry, I forgive you.’ Next day, ‘Bam, ouch, sorry, it’s okay.’

“It’s like 18 months - every day. Guy hits you the first time in early summer. Every day for a year until it’s summer again, and then on into late fall. Getting hit every day. What’s that going to do for anyone?”

***

On Wednesday Foy looked up a couple of articles on the Internet. One was about a black woman who had thrown her body over a KKK marcher to protect him from an angry mob. The other was about a boy who was kidnapped and shot in the eye. He barely survived. As an adult he became a minister, and he found out the man who shot him was in a local prison. He started visiting the man. They eventually became friends, and he visited him in prison until the man died. Then he did the funeral.

He carried these things around inside of him, letting them percolate.

And then it was Thursday. Foy had arranged that on Thursdays he was not to be disturbed apart from emergencies. He came in with a cup of coffee and a doughnut for Judy, as had become their Thursday tradition. He got his messages and said, “I’m off to see if I can find a sermon.”

There was a desk in Foy’s office, but he had pushed it against the wall because he didn’t like sitting behind it. The desk became a kind of credenza. There was a plant in the open space where a chair would go. Books and other things were piled messily upon the desk. In the center of the room was a round table with a few chairs around it. Foy cleared everything off the table. He got a coffee mug filled with pencils and highlighters and sat it in the center of the table. He grabbed 4 or 5 sheets of thick, 11x17 inch paper and put them on the table as well. Then he stood in front of his bookshelves. The books were arranged by basic subject. General scriptures and hermeneutics, Old Testament, New Testament, Church History, Ethics and Theology, Pastoral Care, Liturgical & Worship Resources, Contemplative Spirituality, World religions, and then a large collection of dictionaries, Bibles, lexicons, and other language and subject helps.

Let’s see…Bruner. He pulled the second volume of a 2-volume commentary on Matthew from the shelves. Gundry, yes. Barclay of course. Um…He ran his hands down the spines of books. Turning to his collection of parable resources, he took Bernard Brandon Scott, Capon, Jeremias, and an old book by George Buttrick that he loved. He grabbed his Greek New Testament and a parsing guide, because his vocabulary had gone all to hell over the years.

Foy stacked these books on the table and returned to the shelves. He spoke to himself out loud.

“The problem with this passage is we don’t know what forgiveness even means. We don’t even know what it means in English. That’s going to be key. What is Matthew saying that Jesus said we should do?”

He had to move a fossil, a GI Joe, and a Rosie the Riveter action figure to get to his big Greek lexicon, the Arndt and Gingrich. He pulled it and laid it on the table with the other books.

Oh, what’s that word?

Foy opened his Greek New Testament to Matthew 18:21.

Then came the Peter…no coming. Then coming, Peter said to him, Lord…Posakis? What’s Posakis?

He checked his parsing guide.

Only occurs 3 times in the New Testament. No wonder. Posakis - How many times.

Then coming, Peter said to him, Lord, how many times harmartesei…uh, hamar…what’s that word - oh yeah, sin. How many times sin unto me…into me… AGAINST me the brother of me and apheso. There you are - apheso, aphiemi, forgive.

Foy leaned over and grabbed the first volume of Kittel’s Theological Dictionary of the New Testament. He had saved money for a year to buy the whole set by mail order, and he was proud of them. Ten volumes in their classic blue covers. Foy flipped to the article on aphiemi and began reading.

“To send off, richly attested in Greek from an early period…”

Whatever, just what does it mean?

“To hurl…” Hurl! He chuckled.

“To release, to let go, to let it be.”

Foy leaned back in his chair. So the idea behind Matthew’s word is letting go. That’s got promise. I can work with that.

He flipped a few pages over in Kittel. How are other people using aphiemi in the New Testament?

***

After lunch Foy got a pen and several nice pencils and started writing on the 11x17 sheets of paper. He wrote down the moves of the text and made bullet points of ideas and thoughts. He got his copy of “Draw Squad” by Mark Kistler and spent 15 minutes drawing buildings and coke cans and corked bottles floating in water. Shading was what he loved. Cross-hatch shading, shading with the side of the pencil, smudging the graphite with his finger.

He moved back and forth between drawing and writing, becoming fully engrossed in the text. At 3 pm he left the church to make a couple of visits, one to an elderly man in the hospital. Then he had a cup of coffee with a guy who had visited the church. Over coffee it was revealed that he was worried that Foy’s church didn’t believe the Bible enough. He felt the church should believe the Bible a little more before he could become a part of the community.

***

Friday was Judy’s day off, and there was no one at the church but Foy. He walked down a darkened hall toward the sanctuary. No other kind of alone feels like being alone at church. Dark, empty churches scared Foy as a boy, and he still had a bit of that mysterious feeling in him when he was alone at church. Foy parted the emptiness with his body like a ship breaking ice. He moved through the foyer and into the sanctuary. He had his notebook computer, his sermon notes, and a Nerf football. He moved behind the pulpit, opening his computer and laying it in the center of the pulpit. He spread his notes out around it. Then he bent over, holding the football in his hands like he was behind the center on a line of scrimmage. He made a “hup” sound and dropped back behind the communion table like a quarterback moving into the pocket. He bounced on his toes a couple of times and fired a pass at the clock on the back wall above the center aisle. The Nerf football flew in a tight spiral and hit the wall a few feet to the right of the clock. Foy liked to throw things. Anything, really. Rocks, balls, frisbees, knives. He was quite adept with the Nerf football and was proud of that. He often looked for an excuse to play catch with children in the church.

“Oh yeah, Brett Favre.”

He ran down the aisle and picked up the football.

He turned quickly around and lofted a pass high into the air. His hands dropped to his sides and he stared at the ball in flight, amazed and charmed by its sudden presence in the sanctuary. The ball arched gracefull toward the rafters, reached it’s pinnacle, and dropped behind the pulpit area into the place where the choir sat. There was a muffled series of bumps as it bounced around the chair legs for a couple of moments. And then all was still and silent again.

Foy put his hands in his pockets and slowly walked down the aisle toward the front. The pews seemed filled with the souls of the departed saints from St. Alban’s past, and the aisle was much like the one he had walked down as a boy in the Baptist church, when he gave his heart to Jesus. He knew no other world but this world. Knew it and hated it and feared it and loved it.

Foy moved behind the pulpit and looked at his notes. He typed a few things into the computer, then moved from behind the pulpit and paced the stage like a stand-up comedian.

“The thing about forgiveness is, we don’t know what the hell it means. We never define it. People are always saying, “Forgive me,” or “I forgive you,” but we don’t define it. That’s a problem. And it’s one of two problems facing us in today’s text.”

Foy stopped walking and looked at the clock on the wall. He stood still, thinking.

“That’s a problem. That is a problem. That is the problem.”

He moved back behind the pulpit and spent a few minutes typing on his computer. Then he looked up and spoke to the empty sanctuary.

“The other problem is, no sane person would ever forgive someone 490 times. And that’s what 70 times 7 would be. That would be like someone doing something awful to you, say punching you in the nose, and then asking for forgiveness. And of course you would forgive him, for we are commanded by Christ to do so. Then that person punches you in the nose every day from now until…”

Foy checked his calendar and did some math. An astonished and pleased look came on his face.

Oh, that is so cool.

“Every day from now until the year 2000. And you would have to forgive him every single time.”

Foy left the pulpit again. He went to the choir area and retrieved his football. He flipped it, spiraling, into the air as he walked back to the pulpit. He turned quickly and threw the ball out into the pews. It hit the top of one pew, bounced sideways, hit another pew, then dropped to the floor.

“No one would do that. Not you and not me. No human can forgive someone 490 times. And you know what? I don’t think that’s what Jesus meant. I think he was trying to make a point for Peter and the others. There is something wrong when you think of forgiveness that way, when you think of forgiveness as something hard you have to do, and you only want to forgive for as long as you have to. What you’re really wanting to know is how many times before you can deck the guy who has been punching you.”

Foy stopped.

Ooh. Yes.

He ran to the pulpit and began typing furiously on the keyboard.

rlp

Part three coming...I don't know when. Soon.

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