I have always claimed to be a true lover of my American people and culture. But more often than not, I find that love at odds with the loyalty demanded by the system of government and the state power which goes by the same name.

G.K. Chesterton also loved his English culture and the English people. In that sense, he was as true of a patriot as you could find. But for the love of his people and the beauty of his culture, he took serious issue with many aspects of the society and the government which also claimed the title “England.” In making the distinction, he once wrote:

“I begin with a little girl’s hair. That I know is a good thing at any rate…If other things are against it, other things must go down. If landlords and laws and sciences are against it, landlords and laws and sciences must go down. With the red hair of one she-urchin in the gutter I will set fire to all modern civilization…because she should have clean hair, she should not have an unclean home: because she should not have an unclean home, she should have a free and leisured mother; because she should have a free mother, she should not have an usurious landlord; because there should not be an usurious landlord, there should be a redistribution of property; because there should be a redistribution of property, there shall be a revolution. That little urchin with the gold-red hair, whom I have just watched toddling past my house, she shall not be lopped and lamed and altered; her hair shall not be cut short like a convict’s; no, all the kingdoms of the earth shall be hacked about and mutilated to suit her. She is the human and sacred image; all around her the social fabric shall sway and split and fall; the pillars of society shall be shaken, and the roofs of ages come rushing down, and not one hair of her head shall be harmed.”

For me, this is an exposition of the upside-down Kingdom of Heaven Jesus proclaimed. Chesterton proclaims the gospel of the supreme worth of sacred humanity and the utter vanity of the merely human.

“America” the state, the government, inaugurated a quarter of a millennia ago is neither here nor there in the Kingdom of Heaven, for it has no reality on its own, apart from us. It is not Real in the same sense that what the Creator has made is Real. And yet, on its altar, his creatures made in his image are sacrificed by weak and greedy men.

Those people called by the name “Americans” are Real.

Those vast tracks of land called by the name “America” are real with all the creatures God made to walk in them.

The system of power called by the same name and upheld by all of us begins to concern God when we take what our own hands have made and turn it into an idol and an altar of sacrifice.

Of course we must be a people, we must have a story and a sense of shared identity. This isn’t the problem with “America.” These things serve humanity and make us what we are.

But here’s the thing: I can give my loyalty, hope, and love to the republic called “the United States of America.” But the republic, the system of government, the state cannot give loyalty, hope, or love back. In the words of the psalmist, it has eyes, perhaps, but it cannot truly see (Ps. 135:15-18). Only we who God has made can do that for one another. And as soon as we demand loyalty, hope, or love for the institution itself, we have already given to it what belongs to only God alone, and through him, our neighbor also. We have already begun to sacrifice the human, with human sacrifice itself being the inevitable result.

Surely some of my ancestors who fought the gruesome wars of 250 years ago did so, in their own hearts, for the sake of their wives, children, and neighbors. While I disavow all state violence, I don’t deny that there is nobility in making that sacrifice, even if some of the greater story proves to be a lie. Because the fact remains that most people happily farming their valleys in peace would never agree to the horrific sacrifices they made, if it were not for the stories told by the wealthy speculators, enslavers, and land-stealers who thrust this devastation upon them. These men did not desire freedom for all to pursue happiness, but freedom for themselves to take Native land and exploit the land itself with the labor of enslaved Africans. And they were quite explicit about this agenda, and about their willingness to be genocidal in its pursuit.

So here is the crux of my argument: if the state has to exist to protect us, and it has to kill children to exist, then the state is the god and the idol to which we sacrifice children, under the premise that the god will, in turn, give us protection and prosperity. We sacrifice the Creator’s children to a thing our hands have made. We sacrifice what is Real, to what only exists because we cause it to.

And the state is always a liar of the most pernicious kind. It tells the same lies now as it did in 1776 and 1860. If we in the U.S. don’t know this by now, I don’t know if we ever will.

Whenever a human institution begins to function as if it is independent of humanity, or stands above God’s Creatures, we have entered the realm of the idolatrous, the demonic, and the broad Way of Death. Then we know that a Power, a Principality is operating in rebellion to the Logic and Logos of Life and in hostility to the Creator.

Nevertheless, we can rejoice. Wondrously, both beauty and brilliance have flowed from these people called “Americans” in the flesh, due to the original goodness God created in humanity, and due to his enduring presence–not due to the violence wrought by that state which in the flesh shares the name of “America.”

Violence, greed, and lust for power bring only death.

That the humble forces of Life which come from our Maker bring beauty in spite of that is cause to celebrate, to rejoice in the face of Death, and to dance in the valley of its shadow. But let us not rejoice under any delusions. Let us never ascribe the glory due only to the Giver of Life and her works to a power of death and violence.

For the sake of all that is truly Living, and all that we rightly love, let us boldly condemn every power which threatens them. And let us rejoice in He Who is seated above all such powers, who chooses to be known in the frailest works of his hands, languishing beneath them. Let us return our hearts to his creatures.

In the beauty of his upside-down Kingdom, it is only in fierce love and fidelity to the lowest and most vulnerable, to those counted out by Power, that we will rise to be seated with him who is above every Power that is named, ascending to the place above the world’s house of mirrors where we can see the state called “the U.S.A.” for the speck of dust it truly is in the real grand scheme of things (Is. 40:15). And seeing it there, in the cosmic scales of God, let us turn in horror and disgust from the thought of sacrificing anything that is his to a thing so inconsequential–a thing not worth a single lock of hair on a little girl’s head.

In fact, I actually respected this preacher. I’ve loved other messages he’s given. Exactly one year prior to the sermon in question, he preached one of the best sermons I have ever heard. It conveyed profound beauty, longing, and joy. And after 10 minutes, he simply stepped back and said he was done, as if to give way to the power of the Spirit descending in that moment. I was floored.

But the message on evangelism–on what it means to proclaim this good news–was not like this at all. I walked out after over 40 minutes, and have no idea how much longer it went.

It began with the disclaimer: “What I’m going to talk about today is really hard. In fact, it just sucks.”

This was a rocky start for me. I talk about what I believe several days a week with people who do not share those beliefs, and I never find it to be something that “sucks.” For me, sharing what I believe is like announcing the end of a terrible war or proclaiming the liberty of captives. It’s a call to greater gladness and hope than any of us can now imagine. It’s all about the stunning beauty and fulfilment of our deepest desire for love, like I had heard this guy preach before.

But quickly, it became clear that what he had in mind was more like convincing someone to join an MLM, or to “take a stand” as a persecuted (and embittered) minority against a world which just hates us. And he added that being in a “liberal” state makes it even worse, along with the typical anecdotes about not being able to “pray in schools,” etc.

I was shocked on many levels. I had never heard him talk like this, and I was deeply worried. As he went on, I could see why trying to get skeptical people (who probably didn’t even vote like you) to “close the deal” would definitely suck.

Just two days prior, I had a 90 minute conversation with a group of young people who are probably the very image of Christianity-hating hostiles this preacher was trying to conjure up: liberal, pierced, tattooed, gay, and bitter ex-evangelicals, who openly express anger and scorn toward the church and Christianity.

But I have never felt that them sharing these things with me amounted to “persecution,” and I never took it personally. I actually feel honored when people are willing to be honest with me in that way. And I don’t feel the need to defend the church–still less a political affiliation or government.

What do we have to defend? And whose cause are we fighting for? Is it the cause of Jesus, Friend of sinners, or of ourselves and the fleeting and broken human institutions or “way of life” we treasure? Even prophecy will pass away–but love will remain.

I am not called to defend the church or any institution–especially where they are indefensible. Instead, I sympathize with hurting people where I can, as you would with anyone hurting or grieving. And with this group of people, that’s been disarming over the years. Others have told me that it’s been healing, simply because they never thought they could share these things with a Christian who would hear them out and respond compassionately. But by taking this posture, I’ve gained friends, and I’ve earned the right to have deeper and more meaningful conversations with people about spiritual things.

With these folks, it took years to earn the right to speak openly about my faith and to explain it in ways I thought would make sense to them. In order to be able to do this, I had to first know them and listen to them–which I could never do if I responded defensively. But even though it took time, my relationship with them hasn’t sucked, because it was never about winning a contest or closing a deal. It was about the opportunity we finally had to walk together and look at the world in a different light for awhile, hearing the voice of the Beloved.

So as I heard this message on evangelism, I held these people in my heart with all of their wounds and anger and flaws–people beloved of God, who should also be cherished by us, even more so if we regard them as our enemies.

If we want anyone to change, for any reason–if we think they are misguided or have fallen into a dangerous habit or ideology–we will never be able to see clearly how to help them without love, and without the compassion that can only come if we get the log out of our own eye first, and recognize our own flaws and tendencies to tribalism, hostility, and yes–Christian supremacy.

The things we believe ought to bring us to deeper humility, more profound wonder, joy, and truth. But instead, we are often led to pride in our beliefs and contempt toward others. Somehow, because we think God has been gracious to us, we deem ourselves superior to others, under the guises of “truth” and “love.”

And then, some who make the call to love are questioned on doctrine–tested to see if they could really be one of the tribe they see no reason to defend. Never could we conceive that their allegiance could be higher even than the church, even than doctrine itself.

Though doctrine has come of Paul, Jesus did not call Paul to doctrine.

Though we may go to church, we were never called to serve “the church,” nor to give it our allegiance. We were called to serve one another in the allegiance of love, beyond which we are to owe no one anything.

In naming Christian supremacy, I am not saying to stop being a person of conviction. Christian supremacy is not to believe in Jesus, to believe that He is the God-Man and Human Divine, who died and rose to new life that we may do the same. It is not to believe that He is supreme, that He is King of Creation and Lord of Heaven. It is not to love the LORD God above all others. It is not to be a person of conviction.

In saying that there is a real problem with Christian supremacy, I am not saying that all religious claims are equally valid, and I am certainly not advocating for moral relativism.

I am actually advocating for the opposite of moral relativism. I want us to hold a far more consistent morality than the church has sunk to. I want us to stop holding people outside of our chosen doctrinal or political tribes to a higher standard than that to which we hold our own. I am advocating for the true love and spiritual vitality which does draw others nearer to God, and offers them the healing and transformation they need.

But the thing which caused me to walk out of the sermon was not the overall view on evangelism, as problematic as it was. It was the moment when the preacher said, “Now what I’m about to tell you is the hardest thing I have to say. If you have never asked someone directly if they would in that moment accept Jesus as their Lord and Savior, then you have never shared the gospel.”

What? I thought. Where is that in the Book? Where is that in the example of Jesus or the apostles?

As I walked away, I thought, If what he said is true, then I have never shared the gospel with anyone in my life. And yet, I have had the privilege to watch God meet people. And if that’s the case, then I’m fine with that.

We are not called to close a deal, exert social pressure, or corner anyone on such a sacred thing. We are not trying to get them to sign a petition. All we can do is tell others what we have seen and heard, and be Jesus to them, holding out hope and love and longsuffering, with the humility to learn from God ourselves and realize that we are not anyone’s answer. And I think that when we do, we will often find that we are suddenly standing on holy ground or watching a prodigal come home.

That doesn’t suck at all.

But it definitely is hard to love people, because it’s hard to confront myself in the attempt. It’s hard to bear with others in their brokenness, anger, pettiness, selfishness, and faithlessness, and for them to expose the same in me. It sucks when you love people, and they don’t accept that love.

In fact, it’s easier to bring people a sales pitch than to actually be like Jesus.

But telling people that there is hope and healing and a Love at the core of the Universe beyond our wildest ability to dream–that part is not hard at all, especially if we are already in the labor of love, and seeing God’s love for others through us. That part is the reward and joy of it all.

And if that motivates us, we will be like a man who found a treasure hidden in a field. And in his joy, he went and gave up everything he owned to buy that field, without counting it a loss, and without seeing it as hard.

The problem is, that often what we have to give up is our persecution complex, our sense of fear and threat, our feeling of power and of being better than others. What we have to give up is pride, arrogance, and the logs in our own eyes. What we have to give up is our hardness of heart toward the people whose very existence seems to scorn us. We don’t need to give up the supremacy of Jesus–we need to more fully acknowledge and stand in awe of it, so that we can give up our Christian supremacy and love others freely, leaving them also free in our presence–free to share their hurt and anger and free to be very broken, but held in Love that’s stronger than all of it.

I am exhausted at the stories of people I love missing weddings and funerals because they are in ICE detention, sometimes the only crime they committed being applying for the green card. But I am more exhausted at the ongoing defense of this government by people under the auspices of Christianity. I'm exhausted to see how few are willing to admit they may have been wrong, even as nearly every promise Trump made is being broken, especially on the things people voted for the most--the economy, and ending foreign wars.

Now, an illegal war is waged without the approval of congress. In its first month, it cost each resident of the U.S. $500 of tax money. I have no idea of the tally now. It has driven up fuel, and will soon drive up the price of absolutely everything. It may also create a global food shortage. Even if it were all fixed today, prices would not begin to normalize for another couple of years. Meanwhile, tariffs drive up the price of many common items already, and we continue to fund 70% of the military budget of a foreign government who is daily committing war crimes, ongoing genocide, and ethnic cleansing. And we cry, "Why do extremists hate us?"

And our president depicts himself as Jesus, and defends a literal golden image of himself. And the government of Iran is willing to critique it, while some Christians are not! I remember during his first term people equating him to Nebuchadnezzar as a somehow redemptive thing...but who else is his Christian coalition willing to throw in the fiery furnace if we don't bow down?

I didn’t vote for Kamala either, and I never, ever advocated for people to. I could never do so in good conscience. But, I haven’t seen anyone who voted for her defending the crimes and broken promises of the Biden administration. And I have never been attacked for openly criticizing them, like I have for criticizing Trump. So what’s the deal with Trump? And what’s the deal with Trump and the Christians?

I am a theologian because of these questions. I am a theologian because I struggle to understand who Jesus is supposed to be in the midst of all this. And being a theologian has equipped me to answer those questions. But even I have days where I wonder if my tears are seen or my cries heard, and where the voice of the Redeemer is through all the chaos.

Is He really in prison and among the hungry and bombed out like He seems to have said? Some people would make you feel crazy for thinking so. Or is there another explanation, so that somehow, He is actually in the halls of power with the rich and famous where “Christians” make these calls? Could we really just read the New Testament plainly and without the intervention of our clever theological acrobatics? Could we ever do so and safely remain in the church?

Could we ever do so and find a place of belonging? Could we consistently and relentlessly speak up on where we believe Jesus is, and find a place of refuge with likeminded hearts? These are closer to the real questions, and they are the ones scholarly learning has no answer for.

I just hope that Jesus may be somewhere—the Truth of Humanity, the Fulness of Divinity, God with us—and I hope that He might be the answer.

Everyone is born asking three core questions: Who am I? Where do I belong? What is my purpose? We answer these questions through the formation of identity, belonging, and purpose.

We long to answer these questions through seeing and experiencing Relational Beauty with others, in a community where we are seen, known, and loved for who we really are. This gets closer to the term translated glory in the scriptures. It is being seen, known, and loved in beauty, goodness, and truth (Tree Core Qualities we will begin to explore here soon) reflective of the inherent dignity and worth of the Creator and all he has made.

Scripture speaks to our fundamental need not to gain “glory” in the sense of getting credit for things, but rather to be made again collectively into the image of the Glory of God

But often, Relational Beauty is broken. Where we long to experience beauty, we instead find brokenness, rejection, dysfunction, abuse, isolation, and a feeling that our lives have no purpose–in other words, experiences of shame. Just as scripture teaches that we are made for relational beauty, so psychology shows that shame–or the degradation of this beauty–is an unbearable experience. We long for connections, and we need beautiful ones in order to thrive both emotionally and spiritually.

To resolve the pain of shame, we must turn again to telling the story of who am I, where do I belong, what is my purpose?

Who am I? is the question addressed in the psychological or identity dimension. It has to do with our self perception, and our individual psychology. It is how we fit in a larger story, which is often determined by how we answer the question “Where do I belong?”

Where do I belong? is addressed in the sociological and ideological dimension. It has to do with how we relate with others and how our sense of self is found in status within a group, and the standards created for that status through cultural norms, shared beliefs, and often, ideology. We naturally look to our connections with others to understand who we are, and what our purpose in life is. Group identity is often found in stories of supremacy (“because we’re not them and we’re better than them”) or ideology (“we are those who believe in this higher ideal”), etc., which tie together our social institutions. The higher ideal or grand story we believe about the world is found in the question “What is my purpose?”

What is my purpose? is addressed in the dimension of spiritual/symbolic thought, metanarratives of greater meaning, and ultimately, the something “bigger than ourselves” which we look to for that meaning. It is the higher cause to which a political party, religious, or ethnic group appeals, and to which we will make sacrifices, all too often becoming an idol. And anything out of which we make an idol will always demand some kind of human sacrifice–either of human dignity, freedom, wellbeing, or even of human life.

All three of these dimensions are interconnected in the formation of both individual and group identity, and in how the individual and the group live out the story they tell and believe about the world.

The triangle is extremely powerful, and ideology and idols exert immense influence on identity, shaping us in deeper and more profound ways than any of us care to admit, especially in individualist cultures.

But the triangle is not by any means deterministic. There is freedom and there is help to overcome the cycles of violence they unleash, and to be spiritually free to hold onto truth in a world of lies. There is Relational Beauty that comes from above the cycles of the world. More on the triangle and hope for a rescue from it next, in Part II. Then in Part III, we will look at questions we can ask to think through what is in our own triangle, and how we can use that understanding to help us manage conflict, reach people who have succumb to hateful ideologies, and grow in our compassion and truth-telling.

Who am I? Where do I belong? And what is my purpose? How we answer these Three Core Questions–and if we can answer them–is the greatest predictor of violence on all scales, both against oneself and others. This was one of the key findings in my doctoral research, and one I want to begin unpacking in a series on the causes and pathologies of violence.1

Over the next several weeks, we will explore these Three Core Questions and what both theology and psychology have to teach us about how they propel the cycles and pathologies of violence. But before we name all that goes wrong, we need to ground our imaginations in what things could be when they are right, as they are meant to be. What does it look like to answer those questions of identity, belonging, and purpose in ways that deeply satisfy, and that prevent and halt cycles of violence? The framework I offer for this is relational beauty, or what the Christian scriptures refer to as glory.

We long to answer the Three Core Questions through seeing and experiencing relational beauty with others, in a community where we are seen, known, and loved for who we really are, and where we are able to create artefacts of beauty with others.2

For most of us, the word “glory” is an old-fashioned sounding word that seems to mean being really impressive or flashy. If we grew up religious, it may also connect to God, and the idea that we “give all glory” to him.

But in the scriptures, glory is much greater than this. It does have the sense of importance, significance, and worth. But it also connects with beauty, harmony, righteousness, and peace. Steve Hawthorne helpfully sums it up as God’s “relational beauty, which every human being longs to behold and even to enter.” It’s aesthetic, ethical, and relational, and points to the interconnectedness and inherent dignity of all things. All things derive their worthiness, beauty, and existence itself from the Creator. As the prophet says, “Heaven and earth are full of your glory!” We could even translate it, “Heaven and earth are the fulness of your glory!”

This glory is not something that can be possessed alone. It’s a beauty or harmony which binds all things together, and which each of us manifests in our own unique way--but never in isolation. That’s because it is a relational reality. It is not about anything in creation being inherently “good” or “bad,” “pure” or “impure.” Rather, it’s about how each thing which was created good relates to all the others. In this way, it’s something very like the tao or “Way” of Chinese philosophy. Mystic Simone Weil might call it “the beauty of the world,” the transcendental heart of harmony we sometimes get a taste of in the grandeur of creation or in the beauty of art. Greek philosophy called it the logos (Word) or sophia (Wisdom)--the internal logic and sense behind all things.

We are most truly ourselves when we are truly aligned with the divine glory and pursuing healthy, re-kin-ciled relationships in our lives.

But for most of us, life is marked by experiences of shame--our emotional response to brokenness and wounds in our lives and our community where we long to see beauty. It’s the feeling that not all is as it should be.

Where we long to experience beauty, we too often find brokenness, rejection, dysfunction, abuse, isolation, and a feeling that our lives have no purpose–all experiences of shame. Just as scripture teaches that we are made for relational beauty, so psychology shows that shame–or the degradation of this beauty–is an unbearable experience. We long for connections, and we need beautiful ones in order to thrive both emotionally and spiritually.

Without relational beauty, we begin to languish, and we naturally start searching for ways to resolve the pain, and to answer those questions: who am I, where do I belong, what is my purpose? We will begin to grasp at anything which offers answers–personal achievements, connection in a political or religious group, power, etc. And when we begin to run out of “better” ways to answer those questions or cover our shame, we almost inevitably resort to violence, whether against ourselves or others, or both. We will do a deeper dive into this dynamic in the weeks to come.

As dangerous as shame is, it is is also important and transformative (we’ll say more on this too.) And in fact, shame is the greatest testimony to glory: we long for a reality which none of us have fully experienced, and yet we can’t stop longing for it. Glory is embedded deep within our nature. In fact, it is our true nature, which we often rebel against and wound.

There is nothing better we can commit ourselves to than the pursuit of true glory (Rom. 2:7), to beholding it, and to letting it infiltrate our lives. Our Creator is also committed to the pursuit of glorifying his creation again, and re-kin-ciling all things inside of himself. He is the logos or Logic of the universe, the Beauty of the Whole World, the endless fountain of Love and Harmony. There is a Love at the center of the universe that is not merely an impersonal force, there to be harnessed or appealed to at our own whim. The Source of Glory is not just an essence of Love, but is actively Loving the universe. This means that there is not just a healing stream, but a Healer. There is not just a force drawing us toward the Good, but a Person actively pursuing us for our Good, and even getting in front of us when we no longer know how to turn in that direction. For the Goodness at the center is also the Life. He is Home, he is the Way home, and he is the Friend who knows the Way.

Loyalty, hope, and love—but the greatest of these is love. When I think of these three graces, I think of a quote from Mother Maria of Paris:

However hard I try, I find it impossible to construct anything greater than these three words: ‘love one another’ –only to the end, and without exceptions. Then all is justified and life is illumined, whereas otherwise it is an abomination and a burden.

“To the end” speaks to me of love that endures with faith/fidelity/loyalty. “Without exceptions” says that “love hopes all things, believes all things, endures all things.”

What can this mean Lord? How far is the reach of all things? My heart is in terror and dread at the thought! For I am not all of a whole, and I tremble at the mystery of what it might mean to really, truly be whole, to feel things wholly, and so to be wholly committed–the terror, really, of truly willing just One Thing.

How could I stand before him? How could I truly see the Great Mystery my whole being longs for, the true Seat of my every desire, the most Beautiful? How could I confess that desire, and say with all my will “I am my Beloved’s, and his desire is for me?”

How could I be so completely given over to One who is One, and Who demands everything, simply because He is, actually, everything my true Self desires?

Can I dare to see what I truly stand in need of?

No–I find it easier to stay fragmented, partial, always withheld, to spread my will and diffuse it, to vacillate and be only ever partially given–though all that I am was given to me, I would hold some back, and so I begin to die, to falter, to stumble in my longing…

I recently read James Baldwin for the first time. (Full confession, I did not know he was gay until I began reading his fiction.) “Giovanni’s Room” for me was a gut wrenching read. It is the story of a young American in Paris named David, and his lover Giovanni, told on the evening of Giovanni’s execution by guillotine. Most summaries say it’s about sexuality and social norms, and the tensions between them. But I think this is a gross oversimplification.

For someone who writes so richly and evocatively, the depictions Baldwin gives of sexuality and social norms in this book sometimes feel so wooden as to almost be caricatures. I don’t think that the core problem for David (the main character) is “societal norms” nor his attraction to other men, nor how this conflicts with attraction to women. His problem is himself, his fragmentation, his constant need for others to tell him who he is, and the way he feeds off of the beauty, strength, or social significance of others, none of which satisfy. And this is Giovanni’s problem too, as he runs from his dead child and the mourning mistress he left behind in Italy.

It’s as if every time David has the chance to be a little more whole with a little more integrity, he rejects it and gets more fragmented. And together, David and Giovanni spiral down.

It seems blindingly clear to me that being “free” from social norms would not have saved either David or Giovanni. Neither would being straight, or having no sexual attraction at all. What Baldwin indicates so vividly through their attempts at “finding themselves” is that their fragmentation, their estrangement from their true selves, and the harm they do is much deeper than the particular ways they try to do it.

Even if Giovanni had never had a mistress or a child, the child only represented himself to him. This is why at first he can’t even tell David what he thinks he wants from him–let alone acknowledge what he might truly want in the core of his being. And the room where they live together is, of course, also symbolic of Giovanni himself–longing not to be alone with himself, his dead, his own mortality and oppression and helplessness.

Both David and Giovanni get further and further from the ability to will one thing, driven by the fear of losing control of their lives or of being seen, in any way, for who they truly are (which is not, ultimately, about their sexual “orientation” at all). They choose a scattered will and a fragmented existence–which happens to be played out in sexual encounters and relationships–never fully committing to anything, because they have not committed to themselves.

Being fragmented, I am at odds with my true self, who can only be whole, integrated, and intact. But to be reconciled with her feels unbearable to me.

Why? Why when I know that this communion with God who is one with my True Self is all I long for? Why am I afraid to face it? The more it compels me, the more terrified I am of it, of loving and being loved without exceptions. When I ponder why I don’t join more fully in the dance of loyalty, hope, and love, I realize that I am terrified of the One Who moves them, and the all-encompassing embrace of the One Who could truly and fully see me for who I really am. Like David and Giovanni, my loyalty is fleeting and capricious, my hope is often in all the wrong places, and my love is often only thinly veiled selfishness.

When I see this struggle and affliction in myself I find no real understanding of it. But I do find a little more compassion–a little more, maybe, of the depth I need to love those flawed human beings who falter in their love for me, sometimes wounding me so deeply. And in love being perfected, I find that “all is justified and life itself is illumined.”

It doesn’t make anything easier at all–but, maybe it makes some things possible which were not before. Maybe it draws me further into the realm where “with God, all things are possible.” If I cannot fully face my desire for God, for the One Thing, I can at least see my need for the graces the Creator gives of loyalty, hope, and love, my need to know that they are Real, and more Real than all other powers. To find some comfort in the thought that they will continue their dance of divine favor and joy above the circle of the world, because Redemption lives.

And as long as they remain, dancing their gifts, there is a chance I can learn a few of their steps, and join further in the dance with them and all creation in the Beloved.

Biblical “faith” or pistis does have to do with putting one’s faith in something, as well as with keeping faith, and faithfulness. And we are told emphatically in James that in cannot be a privately held belief or something that stays theoretical. This is why I prefer to translate the word as “loyalty” or “fidelity.” It is not merely actions, but nor is it merely personal belief or feeling. “Loyalty” doesn’t prescribe a specific program to follow, or a list of rules to check boxes on. It allows for a lot of nuance, and what it looks like always depends on context. It allows for growth. And yet, we know loyalty when we see it, and we know disloyalty when we see it. It is a real thing, and recognizable. It proves itself not through checking boxes, but in its consistency through time.

It also means that we don’t always have to “just believe.” We don’t always have to feel it. To be loyal, we don’t need to actually be sure of anything. And we don’t have to do things perfectly either.

But to be truly loyal–to truly keep faith–in these days and times is actually a terrifying thought if we really ponder it. To be committed in spite of being unsure, at times, in spite of the fact that we may not feel like it, and in spite of the fact that we already know we won’t do it perfectly.

We really will not be loyal unless we have true hope–and we will not have the true hope born of anger, unless we have love and loyalty which is able to be grieved and angered. This is why the three go together, but also why the greatest is love.

Grace, or charis, is depicted by the Greeks as a dance of giving and receiving, gratitude and joy–the place where human enjoyment meets with divine favor. The concept is represented through the “graces” personified as three women dancing together. When I read Paul talking about “loyalty, hope, and love” I think of three gifts of grace who remain, who keep on dancing together in the bliss of divine joy in the world, with love being the one who gives meaning and substance to everything else.

The way these three dance together is the grace of God, the gift of the Maker to humankind, and the only true way to be human.

Yet a society which makes money and power its prime gods will not teach us to strive for these things. Instead, it will constantly offer lesser, fragmented substitutions. In place of loyalty, we will have “boundaries,” contracts, and the rule of law. In place of true hope, we will have false hope which says power will save us, which says we should keep waiting and keep sacrificing for a supposedly better future which never arrives, and which says we are not allowed to be angry at injustice. In place of love, we will have co-dependency, and every form of earned affection, acceptance, or belonging–held always in place by the fear that we are not good enough, not loveable or beloved as we truly are.

The invitation to loyalty, hope, and love is thus an invitation to wholeness in our humanity. It is an invitation that will compel us, and will terrify us to whatever extent it truly compels us. More on that next.

One way to reframe our thinking about hope (and everything else we’re not sure we believe in anymore) is to focus more on asking better questions than finding the “right” answers. While questions themselves offer less security and control than answers, questions are also more powerful than answers, and more compelling.

In the gospels, Jesus is asked 183 questions. In all but four cases, he replies either with another question, a story, or an “answer” that’s a paradox. Not only that, but Jesus himself asks 307 questions throughout the gospels. So he is far more often found with the questions than found answering them. Why might this be? I can think of a few possible reasons…

1. “Answers” are incomplete, and too easily satisfy.

Of course, questions are incomplete too, otherwise why would we ask them? But the trouble with a direct answer is that it too often tries to conceal its incompleteness. It tries to fully satisfy a question, and allows us to pretend that somehow we have “arrived” or really figured something out.

It is too easy to settle for an “answer” in place of a living, breathing encounter with Truth herself, and with our True Humanity in God. With an “answer,” we can be tempted to stop looking, stop seeking, and think that we are now in control. We can be “too easily satisfied” as C.S. Lewis says—so enamored by a mud pie that we have little interest in a holiday at the sea.

But a really good question acknowledges an incompleteness, and issues an invitation to go “further up and further in” to what is Real, and to our true selves. With Jesus, even when he does answer, it always draws his listeners into more, not to a stopping point. He always invites people to a deeper connection, not just with “truth” in the abstract, but with the goodness and beauty which makes Truth complete.

2. Questions and answers are always about power and relationships.

And they can also be about wonder, joy, love, and transformation. This is why they are so important. Too often, our desperation for an answer has to do with failures in relationship, with a need to protect ourselves from true relationship, or even from the truth about ourselves. Too often, answers are a way of feeling in control and exercising power over others too.

We can see this in the desperation for answers, but we can also see it–less commonly maybe–in the refusal to be answered. We’ve all seen people who will just not listen to what anyone says, no matter how reasonable or how good the arguments are. There is a fear of not having an answer, and there is also a fear of having one. Both of these postures actually serve to show why we must strive for better questions, because….

3. Questions set the terms for answers.

For those who refuse to be answered, and for those desperate to find a conclusive answer, the root problem is often a need for better questions, to find out what it is that really troubles them.

When Jesus replies to a question with another question, he is not handing us an answer we can write down, codify, categorize, carve into stone, and possess as an object–he is inviting us into a different way of thinking, being, and living in the Way, Truth, and Life.

Rather than telling us what to decide, he asks us to consider how we make our judgments, and why we have made the decisions we do. Perhaps more than any of this, he is asking us to consider who we are. Through his questions, parables, and paradoxes, he invites us not to close our hearts and minds around an answer, but to open them to love our Creator with all of our heart, soul, mind, and strength.

This is because Truth is only made manifest in Love. Love is Truth in action–Love is the Truth of our being and purpose.

Jesus does not ask us to build our sense of self around what we know, like so many of the scribes who question him–rather, he asks us to build it around who we love, and to whom we belong. Over and over again, the scribes ask Jesus to make a judgment on something, and Jesus calls them back to questions of the heart, loyalty, and affection.

Jesus is interested in loyalty, hope, and love. Where do our loyalties lies? In what do we place our hope? And who do we love?

Of course, what we believe and what we do matter immensely. But they mean absolutely nothing if we have not love. And we cannot truly love a fact or an opinion–we can only truly love something which is in some way living. Our facts and opinions mean nothing if they actually shut our hearts off from love, because we are resting in them rather than risking the vulnerability and trust we need to have what we truly long for–which is not an “answer” but a meeting, an encounter with the Love at the center of the universe.

The truest questions we long to ask are all about knowing, and being known in love.

“Love never fails…but if there is knowledge, it will be done away with…for now, we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face; now I know in part, but then I will know fully, just as I also have been fully known.

“But now, these three remain: loyalty, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.”

1 Cor. 13:8, 12-13

Next week, we will start getting into the three cardinal virtues of loyalty, hope, and love, and why they matter for theology and hope in the dystopia.

If the empire is falling–and with it, all the hopes we pinned upon its supposed power and stability, on playing its games, working within its system, reforming it to be better…what are we left with?

Mary’s song reminds us that Jesus was born into a moment much like ours, and his teachings have a great deal to offer when read in a time beyond hope. As we seek to answer the questions of meaning and purpose, we can look to wisdom which has outlasted empires–and we can look to those who never had much hope in the empire to begin with. And maybe our Bible will actually make more sense as a testament of surviving and resisting empire, when read through the eyes of the poor in spirit, the afflicted, and those who mourn.

I think the New Testament makes more sense as a collection of writings for a people finding, living, and proclaiming an alternative hope in an empire crumbling with its gods. It’s a proclamation of freedom from the way of death, and all the hope that relies upon it.

It announces a deeper way, hidden and humble. It announces the victory of Life and Love, of the gentle and the meek, through two pregnant women meeting up in the hills of an out-of-the-way, poor, and oppressed place. Its icons show us trees, flowers, hills, and the flowing breeze.

The mighty are falling. But the Light of the World is arriving, and he will lift up those who are low and brokenhearted.

So yes, let the hope die which rests on power, which placates anger, and which tells us to wait for a future which will never arrive. If we feel that we have lost our equilibrium and our hope, then let us question our hope, interrogate it, ask if it can hold water. Let’s ask if it was ever really worth anything to begin with. Let’s allow the empire of our hope to crumble around us. Let us instead embrace the anger which comes only from love of the sacred, and grief over its violation. Let’s get to know her, and what St. Augustine says are her two beautiful daughters: courage, and yes, hope. But a different and a deeper hope.

Let’s come back to what is living, tender, sacred, and true. Let’s come back to what is Real and Living in ways that nothing humankind builds up could ever be. Let’s come back to what is really sacred and never fails. Let’s lose our life, so that perhaps we may truly, finally live–naked of the trappings of empire and its false securities and promises, but free to walk as truly human again with the Creator in the cool of the day.

And if we struggle to find any satisfying answer, it may be because we have not yet asked the right questions. How can we reframe the pursuit of real hope when we see so many lies and false promises around us? How can we start to seek what may actually be found, and rediscover humanity in the ruins of empire? What kinds of better questions could we ask?

More on that next.

It has been tumult and trouble. Much we once counted strong and stable has begun to show its cracks. Trust in our religious, social, and governmental institutions is at an all-time low. And so is our trust in one another.

Paul Kingsnorth says that all empires run through a certain life cycle–a culture becomes a civilization with centralized power, the civilization begins to colonize and grow into an empire, and as soon as it reaches its “golden age,” it begins to die. Human and natural limits are ignored as greed and arrogance become virtues in a culture increasingly obsessed with money and power over other people, along with practical mastery over the non-human creation.

In the process, humanity itself is despised and degraded. Kingsnorth says that as machines become more like humans, humans become more like machines. As our world becomes increasingly based on convenience, comfort, and disposability, so does our sense of self and community. Meanwhile, the collective human-machine/machine-human begins to exercise more and more god-like supremacy. But, in growing efforts to maintain and expand its stability and control, it grows more and more unstable and out of control. The bigger all of these systems get, the more fragile they become, and the harder they will fall.

It is not possible to think all at once of the many possible environmental, military, and social disasters now looming on our horizon, nor even the full scope of those already upon us. Nuclear war. Economic collapse. Another American Civil War. Just to name a few. And in the meantime, grinding depression, anxiety, addiction, poverty, disempowerment, and the living apocalyptic nightmares that already exist in places like Gaza, Congo, Cuba, etc.

I am convinced with Kingsnorth that this Anglo-British-American empire we live in is already dead, and we have already begun to live in its ruins.

The questions this raises are not of political or technological solutions. We will not be able to outpower or outsmart the greed, arrogance, and degradation of humanity. If there is anything like legitimate “hope” it cannot look like anything it has before.

The question for me is what, then, does it mean to be human? Where and how is meaning to be found in a moment where what we once thought strong has begun to fail?

It was in just such a moment that Elizabeth cried out to Mary “blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb!”

These women also lived in a time of increasing imperial decay and oppression. This is suggested in some versions of this icon showing already-crumbling Roman ruins in the background. This communicates both the reality of the moment they were in, and the fact that part of what Mary saw was that her child signified the end of all empires, and the tearing down of the powerful from their thrones.

How, in such a moment as we are in, can we learn to sing with Mary “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my Spirit rejoices in the God Who saves and rescues. For he has seen how low his servant has been, and from now on, all generations will call me blessed. He Who is truly mighty has done great things for me, and his Name, at least, is still holy, still set apart among all the terrifying things we could name in this world. He has mercy on those who still hold him in reverence, as he did for our ancestors and will do for the children still to come. He has shown strength with his arm, and has scattered the proud and the arrogant in all their schemes and ideas, in all the thoughts of their hearts.

“He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up those who are low and marginalized.

“He has filled up the hands of the hungry with good things, but the rich he has sent away empty.”

Yes indeed, these are troubling times we are living in. And I would never stand here and try to tell you that things are really not so bad. They are.

We may tremble at the moment we are in, but Mary exults, and her spirit rejoices in the God Who liberates. Where others see a total crisis and disaster, she sees liberation and new life. Mary finds her exultation in what for many others is the end and abolition of hope.

More on that next.

Many of us in the West already feel we’re living in some kind of “Brave New World” dystopia. So what is dystopian theology?

It’s the year 2075, and the world as we know it has crashed and burned. A group of survivors and their descendants sit around a campfire, while a grandmother tells the stories of the world that was, what went wrong, and the nature of God, humanity, and greater meaning in the post-apocalyptic world.

Was it one of the many natural disasters waiting to overtake us, either from the heavens above, or from gross misuse of land below? Did the sun knock out half the earth’s electronics in an instant, plunging us into darkness, chaos, and war? Was it one of the many plagues and pestilences which our violence toward the earth and its creatures has made more likely year by year? Or perhaps there was a volcanic winter. Did the American Empire finally terminate in American Civil War Part II and a nuclear holocaust?

In any case, the world as we know it has ended, as it has many times in history, and as it already has for people in places like Gaza and South Sudan and the Congo, who already live post-apocalyptic realities, with the sense of dystopia only heightened by the knowledge that the world watches all of it on their phones.

People are always doing theology, whether they realize it or not. They are always trying to tell some kind of greater story about what’s going on, about the world and God and their place within it all.

The question is, what kind of theology can hold water when we’re confronted with the realities of dystopia, of violence, and of the very worst outcomes of human evil? What can we say after Shoah? What can we say in Gaza?

Will we say that we believe in “God, Guns, and Trump”? Or will we take refuge in liberal respectability politics and tolerance: “If we could all just get along…”? Could we face the 13 year old Gazan girl who has survived the massacre of her whole family with half her face and three of her limbs blown off by a weapon signed by Nikki Haley, and tell her about the importance of “a government founded on Christian principles”? Or will we speak of the innate goodness in humanity, only waiting for the proper education to bring it to light?

Who is God in the midst of these realities? Who are we? And what is the most faithful way to communicate that? What kind of other possibilities exist for thinking about spirituality besides the ones we are given by popular American religion (including the New Age and other manifestations)? What kind of theology can hold water in a genocide, or when the world as we know it has crashed around us? What shows that God is with us and for us, no matter our background and no matter our place in life?

These are just some of the questions of Dystopian Theology.

But what if we sometimes talk about God too much or too carelessly?

In one of his books, George MacDonald (the literary mentor of C.S. Lewis), tells us about a father who would only use the name “God” with his children on rare occasions of majesty and awe. The idea was that this would instill in children a sense of the sacred, holy, and transcendent.

It may seem counter-intuitive, but I think that living most of my life with people alienated from church has given me more reverence for the Name of God, partly because I use it less.

These friends have forced me to become far more cautious in my use of God’s Name, and “God-talk.”

In many ways, talk is cheap in our culture. Words lose their meaning, because they’re used too much, and too flippantly. How many times in a week do we talk about plans and things we’d like to do, without ever following through? On top of that, lies and propaganda are rampant with little real accountability. Who really means what they say?

Sometimes I wonder if the church and its God-talk is any different. Outsiders can easily feel like Christians are trying to sell them something, or like they are living in a closed system which only makes sense to insiders. A lot of God-talk sounds like a sales pitch, or like people quoting a movie you haven’t seen. So much is said about God, and in the church his Name is appealed to for everything, but actions often don’t align or follow through.

Maybe we think they flatter God by talking about him often. And yet, “Where words are many, transgression is not lacking” (Prov. 10:11). We can throw God’s Name around so much, that we lose the sense of the sacred in it. God’s Name is often used as a way to wield power and coerce others, leaving wounds associated with God and faith. Even unintentionally, we can miscommunicate when we and our neighbors don’t share the same assumptions about God.

This is why I’m so cautious in using “God-talk” around my friends, and around people in the wasteland:

I want to err on the side of being slow to speak and quick to listen. When we are with other people, we are with sacred beings made in God’s image, with whole worlds inside of them that we will never know, no longer how close we become. This should make us humble, reverential, and eager to listen to other people too. So many people never find an open invitation or a listening ear for their deepest questions. In such a word-heavy culture, we can often do people a service just by listening to them. Furthermore, if I don’t know where other people are at, how can I meet them where they’re at?

I want to speak of God with great care, and in ways that undermine common assumptions. I know that my friends have negative experiences with God-talk. Some of them carry religious trauma. For others, God-talk has just never made sense or seemed relevant. I want to make sure that I’m “speaking rightly” of God (Job 42:7) with personal integrity, reverence, and authenticity. If I do use God’s Name, I want to be highly intentional with how I’m using it, and what I will convey. I also want to speak about God in ways that come from my heart, and not in ways that are trying to sell something. I want to bring people the gift of my own vulnerable self—coming to them as I truly am in God’s presence.

Finally, I need to earn the right to have certain conversations. We really don’t have to tell people everything we think when we first meet them, no matter how convinced we are that we’re right! And for some things, it’s wise to earn the right. Hopefully, my life and words align with integrity and authenticity, and people can tangibly see that I love them (in spite of my flaws). When the relationship frames my God-talk, I can share more freely, even on sensitive topics. A good relationship means I have a much better idea of how to speak with people, and it means they are less likely to misunderstand me. Waiting until I’ve earned the right to speak also shows that I value the relationship more than I value my opinion or sense of being right. It shows that I’m willing to hear as much as I want to be heard. It shows trust in God’s process.

All in all, living in the wasteland has actually given me a much greater sense of reverence for God, and the sacredness of God’s Name. It has made me careful with how I speak of God, and helped me to see the ways that American religion has not spoken rightly of him as Job did. It has increased my sense of the holy, and of the need to honor what is sacred, including the sacred image of God in others. Being sensitive to lies about God and the religious trauma of others has also greatly deepened my love for the truth about God, and for what is good.

“Are you busy?” he asked.

“I have time to talk with a friend,” I said.

He began to tell me that I didn’t really understand what was going on over there, and I asked him to please share his perspective. He proceeded to tell me all of the reasons why there was no real way for this conflict to be resolved, both because of the factions in Israeli society and Palestinian internal politics. “The settlers will never be displaced and will never stop,” he said.

“And,” I added, “the Palestinians whose lands they are taking will never stop fighting them. I wonder what you would do if you were in their shoes? Or what would you tell them to do?”

“Ultimately, they will have to leave, but of course they won’t. So what is there to do? This conflict didn’t start in 1948. The Bible says it started with Isaac and Ishmael. And we think we can fix it now?”

First of all, I was not entirely convinced that he really believed the Isaac and Ishmael part. I felt like it was more of a “hasbara” argument for me since he knows that I’m a Christian. Historically, Judaism didn’t teach an ancient animosity between Jews and Arab Muslims. Even up to recent times, influential figures like Rabbi Jonathan Sacks see the Isaac/Ishmael narrative as a redemptive and reconciling one.

Nonetheless, it was clear to me that my friend did sincerely believe in the zero-sum game, “us or them” narrative. I asked him, “So if the conflict cannot be solved, what you are saying is that one side will have to be eliminated?” He wasn’t willing to say this out loud, but he shrugged and then proceeded to tell me that the Arab world was stuck in antiquated thinking, that some of them are good people, but overall they just cannot be reasoned with. Israel, on the other hand was with the times, engaged with the West, and had a lot to offer the world.

If you buy into the zero-sum game—where the existence of one side means the death of the other—then you have to decide which side is more worthy of life. And he wanted to convince me that that side was his. Of course, no one wants to choose between Isaac and Ishmael. But if you have to choose, the choice is clear.

The idea that we have to choose goes against everything that Jesus teaches and does. Ephesians tells us that he did away with the “us or them” mentality, putting it to death on the cross (Eph. 2:11-14). Paul also tells us that in his world, there is neither Jew nor Gentile, slave nor free, barbarian nor civilized (Col. 3:11).

And even within the Genesis story (as Rabbi Sacks also points out in his book “Not in God’s Name”) things are not nearly so cut and dried.

Sarah is the one who believes that Isaac and Ishmael cannot coexist. She believes in the zero sum game, and forces her will on her household because of the power she holds over Hagar. But God sees Hagar, and she is the first one to give him the name “Jehovah Jireh,” the God who sees and sees to it. The angel of the LORD—who some understand to be the pre-incarnate Christ—visits Hagar personally and gives her a promise and a blessing for her son (Gen. 16:8-13).

Abraham also doesn’t accept the zero-sum game of his wife. He pleads with God, “Oh that Ishmael might live before you!” (Gen. 17:18). God hears Abraham and agrees with his request, passing along to him his original promise to Abraham’s offspring: “As for Ishmael, I have heard you; behold, I have blessed him and will make him fruitful and multiply him greatly. He shall father twelve princes, and I will make him into a great nation” (Gen. 17:20). As if that were not enough, we see Isaac and Ishmael reconciled by the end of the story, meeting together to bury their father (Gen. 25:9).

On top of all that, Isaac and Ishmael are not the only brothers to feud in Genesis, or to have prophecies predicting their feuds. Jacob and Esau feud because of Jacob’s trickery and deception, but are also reconciled in a moving scene in Genesis 32.

Finally, Israel’s sons also feud, even betraying a brother to death and slavery. And this feud seems to continue in the legacy of the 12 tribes and their civil wars with the Davidic kings. Yet no one talks about an intractable, thousands year conflict between Ephraim and Judah (though this would perhaps be a more apt story to explain the Palestinian/Israeli situation, since Palestinians are descended by blood from the ancient Judaeans).

Even if there is such a thing as a cursed Abraham blood feud, those feuds were broken in Genesis. And if they were broken in Genesis, then they are surely broken on the cross, and can be broken today. In Genesis, God is never the one to start a feud, but he is the one who intervenes and finishes them. And Jesus tells us clearly that we will be known as his children through living our vocation as peacemakers (Mat. 5:9).

When people buy into the mentality that either we die, or they die, “us or them,” Jesus gives a third way and says, “me.” He offers himself to die instead, so that the cycles of violence may be finally revealed for what they truly are, and undone. In Jesus, God gives himself to us, and we do with him what we will. He shows us what the outcome of the zero sum game is, which is really the destruction of our humanity as we become cruel, cold-hearted, and self-destructive. We may not die, but we give up the very things about ourselves that make life worth living. When we dehumanize others, we ourselves are more greatly dehumanized.

But Jesus enters into the zero-sum game and suffers it, becoming our sin so that in him, we might become the righteousness of God. Jesus would rather suffer everything than give up the True Humanity which he came to restore in us—humanity knit to the heart of God, and consumed with nothing but divine love and purpose. Because Jesus maintains this humanity to the bitter end, God has highly exalted him and given him the Name above every other Name (Phil. 2:1-11).

And the power of this True Humanity perfectly united with the desire of God is such that not even death can hold him. And if death itself can be undone by love, and by the refusal to dehumanize ourselves or others, then surely there is no conflict, curse, or feud which cannot be undone.

To believe otherwise is to deny the power of the Cross.

But if it can be undone? If there is hope?

Then we are accountable to that hope and are called to act. And I really think that most of the time, we would just rather not. It is far easier to theologize a hopeless situation than to cling to the true and powerful Living Hope which might ask that we come and die, to find that we may truly live, which might ask that we sacrifice to see the Kingdom come and his will done on earth as it is in heaven.

I don’t expect my Israeli friend to understand this—although I know several Israeli Jews who find in their own faith the resources to believe in a better future and to fight for a just peace.

But I think that my Christian friends have to be presented with this choice—Jesus, or the zero-sum game.

Sometimes, I will get a message from a friend or family member like the one I got this morning:

What you need to understand is that what’s happening in the Middle East didn’t start a hundred years ago. The blood feud began with Isaac and Ishmael, and the Muslim scriptures teach them to kill Christians and Jews…

They may then go on to “proof text” Islamic writings which they think prove a “plan” of Muslims for world domination, along with biblical writings which they believe show God’s preference for Jews over Arabs, or that prove God planned for them to hate one another.

Of course, they ignore many biblical passages which flatly contradict this, and they ignore the teachings of Islam which promote peace, and even give a special place to Christians and Jews: for instance, the fact that Muslim men are explicitly allowed to marry Christian or Jewish women without requiring them to convert to Islam (though they could not, for instance, marry a Hindu who is an “idol worshipper”). Or that if a Muslim cannot find halal meat wherever they live, they are permitted to eat “the good food” of Christians or Jews. Let alone the sayings of the Prophet Muhammad which honor “the people of the book” and which affirm that there are righteous Christian clergy under his protection.

Whereas Muslims see themselves as completely separate from those who worship many gods, Islam recognizes affinity with the other Abrahamic faiths. And indeed, at many points in the history of Muslim, Christian, and Jewish relations, this affinity has been honored and embraced.

Prior to my recent trip in southern Spain and Morocco, I knew about Ottoman policies on Christians and Jews—they held official government power over their own communities, and (with some exceptions) were allowed to practice their faith and enforce their own local laws. This is arguably why the Ottoman empire was one of the largest and longest lasting in history—it gave a relatively high amount of autonomy and protection to its territories, such that some places actually asked to join their empire.

During a period of several hundred years (again, always with exceptions) Muslims, Christians, and Jews lived in relative peace in the Holy Land. In fact, the Ottoman Empire was more often a place where Jews came for refuge after fleeing pogroms, crusades, and massacres in Christian Europe.

But on this trip, I also learned about untold histories of southern Spain. Spanish Christian kings allied with Muslim caliphates, made room for Islamic influence in their society, and at times rose to defend their Jewish communities against pogroms. King Peter I did all of this.

According to the guide at the Alcazar Palace in Sevilla, Peter I’s embrace of different cultural histories in his kingdom was popular with the common people (though not with the nobles, one of whom attempted a pogrom against Jews which was stamped out by Peter). In their palaces, the rulers in Sevilla created stunning combinations of Islamic and Christian elements. The entrance into this building has the Arabic phrase “none but Allah conquers” along with a Latin inscription giving credit to “the grace of God” for Peter’s reign. In this metalwork, you can also see a star of David.

And other stories of neighborly love between religions in this region still survive in living memory.

While we were in Morocco, an elderly shopkeeper struck up a conversation with me and a friend who is ethnically Ashkenazi Jewish (though he didn’t know this.) He began to tell us with a tone of longing of his childhood memories of Jewish neighbors during the time when they thrived in Tangier: Our doors were always open to each other, and my friends and I ran in and out and ate in each other’s homes and ate together. I’m talking now about the 1950s. I wish it were like this always.

As a minority group, Jews (like Amazigh, Christians, and others) sometimes suffered persecution and marginalization in Morocco. But during WWII, Morocco was one place where the European program of Holocaust was resisted by the Muslim Sultan. According to the Smithsonian:

As Morocco’s leader, he was Amir al-Mu’minin, or “Commander of the Faithful,” the supreme religious authority for his people. Mohammed saw looking after Moroccan Jews as his God-given responsibility. “Moroccan Jews are my subjects,” he told the Vichy government, “… and it is my duty to protect them against aggression.”

The next day, we stumbled upon Tangier’s historic Jewish cemetery, with some tombs up to 500 years old, reflecting a history of Jewish existence there which stretches back at least 2000 years.

If these things were possible in 1000 AD, and in the 1300s, and in 1940, they are possible now, and they fly in the face of any myth of intractable ancient blood feuds or curses—and especially the noxious heresy that God of the Bible has someone ordained hostility between Abraham’s children. As much as these ideas ignore many historical and theological facts about Islam, they also ignore a lot of the Christian scriptures. In fact, God gives Ishmael his explicit blessing in Genesis (Gen. 17:18-20), and we see him reconciled with his brother at Abraham’s death (25:9). All that God promises to do with Ishmael is to make him a great nation (17:20).

The sultan of Morocco would have had a much easier time if he collaborated with the European powers who wanted a Holocaust in Morocco. But he saw a divine obligation to protect his Jewish citizens.

So how is it that today, many Christians promote the lie that the unprecedented violence we see is okay, or even a “good” thing which God approves? Why are we stoking the fires of war, arming people to kill women and children, and protecting those who have made their genocidal intentions clear and have backed it up by being responsible for over 99% of all casualties?

How is it that in the Name of the One who has broken every curse, we promote the lie of curses and blood feuds, and then use this lie to set the value of Arab and Muslim lives as less than our own?

We accuse Muslims of holding beliefs which promote violence, and yet we have been directly or indirectly responsible for the deaths of at least hundreds of thousands of Muslims in this century alone, all with the support of evangelicals.

Brothers and sisters, these things should not be! There is a sense in which all of this needless violence is a curse, but it is not one which we are meant to accept. We do have a way for every curse to be broken and every cycle of violence halted through the cross. We have the power of God to be peacemakers and fulfill Jesus’ commands. We have the ability to be a true light shining in the current darkness of the world, and to overcome evil with good.

We have the spiritual power to conquer fear and fear-monging propaganda with the power of love, and this power is not just an idea—it is actually very practical, simple, and concrete. More on this and how curses are broken in Part II.

What would you do and who would you be if you knew that you would be seen and fully loved for who you truly are without conditions? If you no longer had to achieve anything or meet any other person’s expectations? If you no longer had to earn money so you could dress a certain way, have certain furniture or a certain car, or go out to certain places? What if no degree or accomplishment or amount of money and status mattered anymore?

Would it feel like loss, or liberation?

When the mighty things in us begin to be dethroned, it means loss—most often, their downfall comes through the grief of life, which is as unavoidable as love.

But, we so often attach our loves to idols and tyrants. We attach them to the things we think will give us acceptance, worthiness, belonging, security (if we make the right sacrifices to them.) And those “mighty things” must be lost to us if we are to be truly free to love as God loves, and to see ourselves as loved by God, through his eyes of tenderness and care.

When this begins to happen, we will also see the lowly and humble things in us set free, lifted up, and exalted. We will see the things God put in us, which the world and its values suppressed. Because God’s fatherly sense of value and motherly tenderness and care do not see as the world sees. He cares about our weaknesses, our vulnerable places, the things within us that the world and we ourselves have despised. He cares even about the silly things, the irrelevant things, the “unimportant” things. Because he cares for and yearns over all that he has made, and he made nothing without value.

What kinds of “silly” and “lowly” things do I mean?

I mean things like our earnest desire for simple love, care, and acceptance for who we truly are, the childlike desire to just be loved without having anything else to offer. And I think that it also means things like drawing because we want to, not because we think we’re all that good at it, or that we’ll impress anyone with it.

I think it means dancing because we have joy to express and multiply, not because we think we’re the best dancer, or so we can “fit” in some crowd or draw some kind of attention. It means freedom from all the world’s ways of determining the worth of something or someone. These may be things that seem “spiritua,l” but they may also be things which look mundane, and yet in God’s eyes are packed with spiritual significance—lowly things like dancing freely, which may yet manifest “the freedom of the glory of the children of God” (Rom. 8:21), which may testify to a person with a glad and generous heart (Acts 2:46), steeped in gratitude, overflowing with God’s own joy in all that he has made (Prov. 8:30-31)

These are the sparrows of our souls, which may be disregarded by religion as well as by the Market’s “value,” but which do not fall to the ground without our Father’s notice, and are never forgotten by him. For “even the sparrow finds a home, and the swallow a nest for herself where she may lay her young, at your altars, O Lord of Hosts, my King and my God” (Ps. 84:3).

If the sparrow and her young have a place in the inner sanctuary of God’s glory and presence, how much more so the sparrows in our hearts—the unmarketable, unnoticed, lonely, forgotten human loves and tender things (Ps. 102:7)?

I listened too much to the many voices who told me how I could matter and what was important in my life. But there were voices that undermined importance too:

Why should a woman get a PhD in Bible? You might want to reconsider it, because you just might not find that many ways to use it. It might end up being a big waste of time and money.

For some reason, you just don’t fit.

You’re too white. You’re not white enough. We can’t ask people to care about Gaza right now.

I wanted to love you, but somehow I just couldn’t.

And with those voices, came the anxiety to prove them wrong, to prove that what I’m doing matters and is not a waste—to prove that I matter, and that my life is not a waste, to carve out a space for myself where I belong. Without realizing it, I listened to the voices that said what was important:

This project is important, so make sure you finish well! It’s going to give you places to use your gifts…

Justice advocacy is the most important thing while people are dying...

Only direct evangelism matters…

A PhD is really important…

And so on and so forth.

For so many years, I’ve been living by those voices, and trying to meet those expectations.

To really let all of this go has been deeply painful. Many mornings, I wake up and don’t know what my purpose is or what’s really important. I just know that I can’t go back.

At the same time, I feel a love for the little things starting to sprout in me. I am appreciating the little things that are beautiful and that give joy in ways I haven’t before. Slowly, I am learning to honor those things in me which are childlike, and which delight the heart of the Father. Some days I still feel the loss and the devastation, and I wonder if anything else is possible? But then I have a chance to cry out to the God who said I must be like a child again, who said I must be born again, and who says “Behold, I am making all things new!”

and exalted those of humble estate…

(Luke 1:51–52)

Last week, I asked a friend what he thinks God is doing in his life. He said, “dethroning the idols in my heart.” Immediately, I thought of Mary’s song, and saw it in a new light. I usually think of the “mighty” as systems of power that oppress. But I had never seen how it also refers to the way those systems and their idols take up residence inside of me. God is tearing down the mighty things in me from their thrones—the things that have seemed so big and so important, but which have really become tyrants.

And hallelujah! He is also lifting up those things of humble estate—the lowly things in me, the neglected, despised, childlike, vulnerable, tender things…the things I have oppressed and suppressed, which now are crying out to be heard.

Here, I’m going to share about what it’s meant to see the mighty things torn down from their thrones.

Honestly, it’s really sucked.

About six weeks ago, I hit a point of burnout as my dissertation defense, a book launch, a family trip, and ongoing health issues collided in the space of a week. Ever since then, I’ve been simplifying my life as much as possible to leave space for prayer and rearrangement of priorities. My godfather says that it’s only when we wake up at 3 AM that we know what we really believe, and my 3 AMs have had me flipping through the various aspects of my life and future possibilities, feeling pretty unmotivated and unenthused about all of them.

And yet, I’m rolling out of bed at a reasonable time, and going about the day’s tasks with greater dedication than ever.

Depression, a spiritual awakening, or both? Only God knows.

Immediately after my defense, I realized several things: one was that I really could not care less if I earn a PhD or not, or if my “voice” is “important” for the academy, like my examiners claimed. My only desire at that moment was to disappear to a small village in Thailand and never be seen or heard from again.

And immediately I wondered, why??? Where on earth is this coming from? I quickly saw that the problem wasn’t with being told I’m “important,” but with the tyranny of living up to other people’s ideas of “importance” in my life. In so many ways, that’s what I had been doing, and I was utterly spent. I gave my last effort to the defense, and I had nothing left to give—not even to be happy.

And I’d already begun to doubt all of these ideas people have about “importance” anyway. I had come to see so many ideas of meaning and glory as games of image, which may or may not have anything to do with real life. We fight for prestige and status. For the sake of an image in the standards of other humans, people will sacrifice so much—even human life. But then, what do you have? All you have is an image built on Monopoly money, in a system which will one day come to an end—an idol which in itself has no life, but actually steals Life away, as Isaiah says (44:1-20).

In fact, when people asked me “What will you do with your PhD?” I had already for some time been giving the (somewhat sarcastic) reply “Respect people less for respecting me more!” And yet, in so many ways I now recognize how I’ve been trying to prove to people that my degree is “worth it,” that my work and ministry matters, and ultimately, that I’m worth it.

Then a couple of weeks ago I suddenly realized that I don’t want to be important, wise, strong or eloquent. I asked myself, “What if I were insignificant, foolish, weak, and bumbling? What if I had nothing at all to offer anyone except love?” And I realized, “I never wanted to be loved for all of those things anyway…so why am I fighting so hard for them? Doesn’t everyone really want to be loved just for who they are in their most vulnerable self?”

And then I thought of this quote from Henri Nouwen: “The Christian leader of the future is called to be completely irrelevant and to stand in this world with nothing to offer but his or her own vulnerable self.”

This quote has troubled me for some years. It strikes me as true, and yet I haven’t been able to see exactly how. But this time it hit me—who would ever describe love as either “relevant” or “irrelevant”? Love cannot even be described in those terms. It is not less than relevancy—it’s so much more. And if I am loved and capable of loving, and exist purely because of God’s love, then I’m so much more too.

And if I speak in the tongues of men and angels, and have all wisdom, and faith to move mountains…if I have a PhD, but have not love, I have nothing. I’m only another noisemaker in the echo chamber of church and scholarship, and I might as well use my diploma as toilet paper.

Because in the end, I don’t want love and acceptance that is gained from all of those things. I want love that’s freely given, received as a gift beyond my control or my ability. I want to have the purity of heart to see God’s love in all the myriad ways He is revealing it every day. I want to believe that I’m worthy of that, and live as though that is true.

And above all, I want to listen to the cries of the humble and lowly things in me which I have neglected and oppressed. More on that in Part II.

We certainly experience both. But which one is the story really about? Which one, in the end, is it?

This question was first posed to me several years ago by Wendell Berry’s Jayber Crow:

“This is, as I said and believe, a book about Heaven,

but I must say too that it has been a close call.

For I have wondered sometimes if it would not finally turn out to be a book about Hell—

where we fail to love one another,

where we hate and destroy one another for reasons abundantly provided

or for righteousness’ sake,

or for pleasure,

where we destroy the things we need the most,

where we see no hope and have no faith,

where we are needy and alone,

where things that ought to stay together fall apart,

where there is such a groaning travail of selfishness in all its forms,

where we love one another and die,

where we must lose everything to know what we have had.”

- Wendell Berry in Jayber Crow

What, in the end, is the prevailing power of the Universe?

Are we living in a story about Heaven or about Hell?

This question has been coming back to my mind a lot lately. I think it is really one of the most crucial questions about existence and about what it means to be human.

Where does the long arc of existence bend—toward justice, or chaos? Is the Universe founded on principles of goodness and beauty and love, which we often fight and push against? Or is it founded on chaos, competition, and scarcity, which we must fight to keep at bay?

I relate to Jayber Crow’s feeling that it’s been a close call. On a lot of days, it really feels like this question hangs on the edge of a knife, and on either side there are abysses of unknowns:

The way I see it lately, the answer can really only be one way or the other. Either existence is meaningless and full of suffering, with only brief moments of joy to make the loss worse—or existence is purposeful and moving through suffering to life, where human-created Hells help us understand the truth about ourselves, and the deliverance we really need.

But here’s the thing—most of us don’t want to answer the question. We don’t even want to seriously consider it. That’s because however we answer it, there will be radical implications, and accountability. And yet, in one form or another, we are faced with this question every day.

If this is really a story about Heaven, where justice must prevail in the end, and where beauty and goodness are the strongest realities (in spite of all we see before us), acknowledging this will have to shape every aspect of how we live and what we live for.

On the other hand, if this is actually a story about Hell, where only might makes right in the end, where cruelty and corruption will always be rewarded (in spite of all the beauty which still, somehow, persists) then this has radical implications too. In that case, the best we can do is shape our lives according to our own desires, to seize power wherever possible, and live for our own pleasure. Or—if love doesn’t really exist and cannot prevail—then the best thing to do is to let the world be destroyed, or destroy ourselves.

I hesitate to put it in such extreme terms, but I really think this is what it comes to.

It’s easier to be unsure of what story we are living in. It’s easier to hang out in the middle, where the jury is still out, and we don’t need to decide yet. Because if we don’t decide, we can keep living as we want, while still convincing ourselves that we’re good people. If I’m not sure if this is a story about Heaven or about Hell, then I can hang out in the fuzzy middle ground where I don’t have to give up on meaning or purpose completely, and yet still don’t have to live up to it. If I’m unsure whether or not justice will prevail, then I don’t have to really fight for justice. Then it’s okay for me to just get by, without really facing myself and my injustice. Then it’s okay for me to distract myself with things which add no value either to my life or to the world.

When I look at how much is going on around us in our society, I see the living Hell.

But when I look at the trees and I hear the birds, and I consider that in spite of all of this, so much beauty still lives and so much goodness still asserts itself, I see the reality of Heaven. And I see the invisible attributes of the Creator Who stands before and beyond humankind. I see how the Universe was made, and I believe that though God’s power is not coercive, and though it is not often loud, and though it works in obscurity and among the poor, vulnerable, and oppressed—still, it stands before us and beyond us, and it is very Good in ways we could never comprehend. I think of how little we truly know about the world we live in, and I have hope for better things to come, and for a plan to reconcile all things in the fulness of time.

And if that is really true, then hallelujah! But if that is really true, then my life needs to belong fully to that reality. If that is really true, then I can hold nothing back from that plan, and I have a destiny to live into and live up to; then anything is possible, no matter what kind of smoke screens of power and lies sting my eyes. If it’s really true, then I must live my life as a constant rebellion against every other force.

If that is really true, then the Kingdom of Heaven is like a treasure buried in a field. And when a man walking by found that treasure, he went in his joy and sold everything he owned and bought that field.

If it’s really true, then there’s no excuse to be wasting my time on the inanities of social media or the outrage of the news cycle. If that is really true, then there are people to love and reach, and there is life to be saved and restored. If that is really true, then there’s something worth fighting for even if every battle seems like a losing one. And if it’s really true, then we are far from alone.

And if it isn’t true, it would still be better to live my life as though it is, and to trust the humble God who does not break a bruised reed, who does not coerce like we do, who does not reveal his power except in hidden ways to those who have none, who blesses the meek, poor, and persecuted, who suffers on the cross with and for us, who allows himself to be buried in darkness, and who has fully taken Hell on himself and has prevailed.

“This is a book about Heaven. I know it now. It floats among us like a cloud and is the realest thing we know and the least to be captured, the least to be possessed by anybody for himself. It is like a grain of mustard seed, which you cannot see among the crumbs of earth where it lies. It is like the reflection of the trees on the water…”

While he was still speaking, Judas came, one of the twelve, and with him a great crowd with swords and clubs, from the chief priests and the elders of the people. Now the betrayer had given them a sign, saying, “The one I will kiss is the man; seize him.” And he came up to Jesus at once and said, “Greetings, Rabbi!” And he kissed him. Jesus said to him, “Friend, do what you came to do.” Then they came up and laid hands on Jesus and seized him. And behold, one of those who were with Jesus stretched out his hand and drew his sword and struck the servant of the high priest and cut off his ear. Then Jesus said to him, “Put your sword back into its place. For all who take the sword will perish by the sword…

Then when Judas, his betrayer, saw that Jesus was condemned, he changed his mind and brought back the thirty pieces of silver to the chief priests and the elders, saying, “I have sinned by betraying innocent blood.” They said, “What is that to us? See to it yourself.” And throwing down the pieces of silver into the temple, he departed, and he went and hanged himself.

Mat. 26:47–53, 27:3-5

I have been reading a book called “War is a Force that Gives Us Meaning” by Chris Hedges, who has reported from war zones across the world, and in his book shares his firsthand reflections on war and what it is. Many of his analyses match with my own research, and as I read this book, I think about Holy Week and Holy Saturday.

Hedges gives different ways to speak about violence and what it does.

On the one hand, violence is a language by which we say to ourselves that we are strong, that we accomplish our will, and to our enemies that they are weak and less worthy of life than ourselves. It is a language our country speaks often on the scale of war, a mother tongue to so many of us—something as natural as English. We don’t think about it or question it, anymore than we think about using the future tense.

Hedges says that war and violence are also drugs, intoxicating those who kill, and those in whose name they kill, and intoxicating people like Hedges who go to report on them. Often, they even intoxicate their victims, becoming a language which they themselves cannot help but speaking. As horrific as war is, Hedges says that it becomes an addiction for many.

Surely Simon Peter had also tasted this drug, and knew how to speak this language! He pulls out a sword in the garden of Gethsemane, proving that he speaks it, and proving that he is, in fact, ready to die for Jesus as he claimed—as long as he can die fighting. Perhaps more than any drug, violence accepts the real possibility of self-destruction, and perhaps even longs for it.

What Peter does not know how to do is die without the drug of violence—to die in laying down his sword.

And what if Peter had succeeded?

What if he had brought the sword down just an inch closer to his apparent target? What if he had split open the skull of Malchus, spilling blood and brains and the stench of death on the ground? What if he had watched him breathe his final breath, so close and intimate, and seen the empty, vacant eyes of the dead, gleaming in the moonlight? What if he—as so many other soldiers have—immediately vomited, in the horror and disgust of what was before him, trembling and unable to grapple with the reality, or with himself throwing up the Passover bread and wine—the body broken and blood shed for him?

What if he stumbled away from the rush and chaos, until the dust began to settle in his soul, and he was left alone with what he had done, haunted by the split skull and dead eyes of Malchus, and the strange, indefinite sense that somehow he had been betrayed, and had betrayed himself? What if he had saved his life, but forfeited his human soul?

And what if Jesus had then come into the sort of kingdom the apostles were undoubtedly imagining? What if he had praised Peter for his bravery and his sacrifice? What if he had thanked him for his service, reminding him of the higher cause which sanctified it all? What if Jesus had honored him, when he could not have any honor left in his own eyes? Then Jesus would have left Peter just as profoundly wounded as Malchus. Jesus would have abandoned him to the wind and the waves of his own violence, to lies, to loneliness, and to the thralldom of the drugs of war.

But of course, Jesus does not do this to poor Peter. We could picture Jesus taking Peter’s arm—still clutching the sword now stained with blood—just as he took it when Peter began to sink into the sea. Yes…but this time, at the moment when Peter thinks he is saving Jesus, Jesus is saving Peter. “No more of this!” he says in Luke’s gospel (22:51). Jesus stops the “self-defense,” stops the power of fear and of dehumanization, precisely by being killed rather than killing—or allowing anyone to kill in his Name.

He does not allow Peter or any of the others to end in the same fate as Judas, and of so many soldiers (in the United States, one almost every hour of every day) —broken, alone, unable to live with themselves or the society they live in, betrayed, and unable to live with the truth they know about humankind which they cannot bear to tell, and which others cannot bear to hear.

No—instead, Jesus exposes this truth once and for all, and then rises again to come back and help us all live with it.

But first, he goes down to hell, to preach to the spirits there, arriving in Death’s realm—perhaps at precisely the same moment as Judas, his friend. We can imagine it…

Judas steps off a chair, but his feet land in hell. And yet, scarcely have they hit the ground with a thud when the floor begins to rumble and the gates begin to shake. His friend Jesus catches him as he stumbles and greets him with a kiss—for the awesome goodness and mercy of God have pursued him even to the depths of the earth, leaving nowhere to flee from the terrible presence and the piercing gaze of the one we had pierced.

And hell itself roars in anger—it is angered because its day has come, because all of its might is brought to nothing. It is frustrated, because it is betrayed—it took a body but discovered God! It seized the dust of earth, and encountered heaven! It is troubled because it is undone.

The friend of Judas did what he came to do.