John Mark Hicks

I am increasingly convinced that all theological and ethical thought must be organically rooted–not simply tangentially connected–and illuminated by what Scot McKnight calls the “Jesus Creed,” that is, the first and second greatest commandments: Love God and love your neighbor.

As a step in that direction, I offer three blogs on the nature and purpose of assembly. When believers gather as disciples of Jesus to pray and commune, when they assemble as the people of God in community, they embody and practice the first and second greatest commandments. Assembly, of course, is not the only way to embody those commands, but it is certainly one way. And, I think, it is illuminating to reflect on the assembly through that lens.

When we assemble, we love each other.

Who could disagree with that? Assembly provides opportunity for mutual encouragement, mutual comfort, and mutual edification. It is a moment of shared life, shared song, shared prayer, shared teaching, and shared communion.

Paul takes us directly to this point when he addresses the problems in the Corinthian assembly in 1 Corinthians 11-14. “Love,” he wrote earlier in the letter, “builds up” (1 Corinthians 8:1) and the assembly is a place where everything must have the intention of “building up” (1 Corinthians 14:26).

But in Corinth it had become an occasion of humiliating the poor (1 Corinthians 11:22) and egotistical self-promotion (1 Corinthians 12, 14). Their supper did not lovingly share with those who had little but rather assumed that each would fend for themselves. They used gifts to distinguish the superior from the inferior rather than for the common good of the body. Their prayers and praises did not prioritize the encouragement and comforting of others but rather promoted their own gifts as tokens of their approved status before God.

Contextually, it is no surprise that 1 Corinthians 13 comes between chapters 12 and 14. Love is the “more excellent way” (1 Corinthians 12:31) and the “greatest” gift (1 Corinthians 13:13).

What kind of love should shape our assemblies? A kind patience that is neither easily irritated nor resentful of others; a hopeful, trustful and enduring love that is neither envious nor boastful. May God bless all our assemblies with such love!

In the assembly love is diminished in several ways. Love is diminished by boastful arrogance which pridefully exalts one gift above another; it is diminished when performers perform rather than encourage and edify. Love is also diminished when assemblies cater to and coddle consumers; it is diminished by attractional consumerism when assemblies should confront us with the reality of God’s presence (1 Corinthians 14:24-25) whereby the secrets of our hearts are disclosed and God is revealed. Love is also diminished when traditional preferences become immutable rules and also where innovative options are introduced in ways that ignore the sensitivities of others.

Love is never easy, and loving each other in community as assembly is not easy either. Miscommunication, inadvertent comments, unannounced changes, liturgical arrangements, seating changes, etc., etc., etc.–almost ad infinitum–are occasions of offense, misunderstanding and hurt feelings.

But love–truly loving our neighbor–love covers a multitude of sins and offenses…even when they happen in an assembly!

When we assemble, let us love one another.

The previous weekend (9/18-19/2010) I was honored to meet with the Echo Lake Church of Christ in Westfield, NJ and discuss “Anchors for the Soul: Trusting God in the Storms of Life.” Brian Nicklaus is the minister there and it was a joy to spend some time with him. Several blog friends, and others, showed up–including Rex Butts and Adam Gonnerman.  Sunday morning I shared Psalm 77 with the congregation (the audio is linked “here“).

Psalm 77 is one of my favorite lament Psalms.  I return to it often–for myself and for others as I pray for or with them.  I have had occasion this week to think about it again as two friends have experienced extreme hardship and tragic depths recently.

There are lines that strongly resonate with me. It uses language speaks my own heart and I can pray it with utter abandon–especially at the darkest moments of my life and the lives of others.

The Psalmist voices my own feelings.

“my soul refused to be comforted” (77:2)–in other words, don’t tell me it will be “OK,” that this is only a brief moment of hurt or pain. Don’t console me with platitudes and pronostications. In fact, to be comforted is almost to say that it really didn’t hurt that bad. Sometimes I would just rather hurt since it legitimates the reality of my pain rather than smoothing it over with “nice” (though well-meaning) words.

“I remembered you, God, and I groaned” (77:3)–in other words, in the midst of tragic circumstances, sometimes the thought of God is too painful itself. When I remember God’s promises, dreams, intent and past actions, I groan with the reality of what is happening in the present and my mind begins to question and doubt. When God is remembered in tragedy, we sometimes groan as we wonder where God was when this happened.

“I was too troubled to speak” (77:4)–in other words, I had no words and it was too painful to even articulate. There were no words to express what I was feeling and I was afraid to even say what I was thinking. Sometimes the weight is so great and the pain so unbearable that we can’t speak even if we wanted to.

But it is the questions that are so real to me. They are so direct in this Psalm, and they are the obvious questions to sufferers.

“Will [the Lord] never show his favor again?” (77:7)  Tragedy seems unending as if the pain will never go away and no joy can erase it. How can there be “favor” again? What would that look like? Am I God-forsaken?

“Has his unfailing love vanished forever?” (77:8) Where is the love God promised? Is this how you love us, O God? You may call this love but it does not look that way to me.  Where is your love in the midst of tragedy?

“Has God forgotten to be merciful?” (77:9) Where is your mercy? Is the world–is not my life–broken enough? Why must this continue? When will you remember your love for us and show us mercy?

If the Psalm ended there, it would still be a wonderful place to sit since it is not a place that many “church folk” allow us to sit. Many don’t want to hear the questions, nor do they want to hear our feelings.  They would rather we not speak or perhaps even admonish us as Job’s friends did. The Psalm would have value even ending at verse 9 much like Psalm 88 ends.

However, the Psalmist finds a way to walk through the trouble and the questions. The Psalmist, with the strength of faith, will come to confess that God’s “ways…are holy” (77:13) despite all appearances. How does the Psalmist get there?

He does three things:

“To this I will appeal: the years when the Most High stretched out his right hand.” I will make a claim about God’s track record. I will recognize that God’s right hand has delivered me in the past and that he has delivered his people in the past. God will not abandon his people.

“I will remember the deeds of the Lord.”  I will recount, retell and relive the deeds of God. I will immerse myself in God’s narrative, God’s story. I will remind myself of the innumerable ways God has been present to redeem his people.

“I will…meditate on all your mighty deeds.” I will quiet myself in mediation–find a moment of calm to let the peace of God sink into my soul by probing the meaning and experiencing in my own soul the reality of God’s redemptive work for his people.

The Psalm reminds me that God has redeemed, does redeem and will redeem again.  It still hurts. Nevertheless, I trust in the redemptive work of God.  God has a track record. He had demonstrated in Israel and also ultimately, climatically and finally in Jesus Christ. Nothing in all creation, my friends, can separate us from the love of God in Christ. This is our trust and hope.

In my previous two posts I suggested three perspectives from which we might view the table:

1. Jesus on the Table–the sacrifical victim who nourishes us with new life
2. Jesus at the Table–the hospitable host who welcomes all to the table
3. Jesus serving the Table–the master who waits on tables

Today: Jesus Serves the Table.

Luke 22:24-30 is a fascinating text if for no other reason than that the disciples are arguing about who was the “greatest” in the kingdom while sitting at the same table with Jesus. Surely no believer ever does that anymore! 🙂

But another reason this text fascinates me is that the instruction here is also given by Matthew (20:20-28) and Mark (10:35-45) but at an entirely different moment in Jesus’ life. They both use it as a response to the sons of Zebedee (and/or their mother!) who requested a prominent place in the kingdom for her sons. Both Matthew and Mark contextualize the kind of service Jesus provides and models in his act of giving his life as a ransom (Mark 10:45; Matthew 20:28). Luke puts a different spin on it.

Luke contextualizes this saying of Jesus by referencing the meal. While Matthew and Mark note that Jesus, unlike the kings and benefactors, serves others by dying for them, Luke notes that Jesus serves other by the way he conducts himself at the table. “For who is greater,” Jesus says, “the one who is at the table or the one who serves? Is it not the one who is at the table? But I am among you as one who serves” (Luke 22:27).

Jesus waits on tables; he served the table of his disciples. Perhaps, if we bring John 13 into this (which may not be good exegetical hermeneutics), we see this through his washing of their feet. Or, perhaps, Luke means that Jesus served as a deacon (a waiter) in this moment. He waited on the disciples as they sat at table. Jesus is a servant because he waits on tables.

I think this is exactly what Luke means and there is an earlier indication in the Gospel that this is his point. In Luke 12:33-40 Jesus tells a parable about a returning Master for whom the servants are watching. We might expect the parable to recount how when the Master returns, the servants will wait on him. But we get the opposite. When the Master returns, the Master prepares to serve, sits them at the table, and “waits (diakonesi) on them” (12:37).

What an eschatological portrait! When Jesus returns, the reigning King will serve the community of faith at table. The Messiah will be the waiter at the Messianic banquet! The wonder of that thought draws me to praise and adoration as well as gratitude.

We might find some rational comfort in thinking that as the Messiah incarnate in the flesh Jesus would demonstrate servanthood by waiting tables. That seems to fit–he did wash feet after all. But that in the eschaton Jesus is still waiting tables–that does not seem to fit….except that servanthood is the heart of God. When Jesus waits on tables, it reflects the kind of servant leadership that is part of God’s own nature. God is a servant and calls us to serve just Jesus served.

Waiting and serving tables. The chuch still does this in its assemblies as well as in its potlucks, service to the poor, and in our homes. Unfortuantely, however, serving the table in the assembly has often been equated with some kind of clerical or gender authority. Waiting tables belongs to all disciples as servants rather than any particular gender or class of clerics.

We are called to serve as Jesus served–giving his life for us but also waiting tables. It is a shame that some lay persons and most women are excluded form the latter while still expecting the former of them. It seems that the only tables most laity and women are not permitted to serve are those in the assembly of the church even while they are expected to serve all other tables. What a crying shame.

In my last post I suggested three perspectives from which we  might view the table:

1. Jesus on the Table–the sacrifical victim who nourishes us with new life
2. Jesus at the Table–the hospitable host who welcomes all to the table
3. Jesus serving the Table–the master who waits on tables

Before unpacking #2, one further comment on #1.  While some might object that “on the table” might sound a bit too literalistic or substantial (in terms of transsubstantiation or consubstantiation), I think my point illuminates that “on” is used metaphorically here but yet with a true, authentic spirituality.  Jesus is “on” the table in the sense that the risen Christ nourishes us as one who already participates fully in the new creation. Through eating his body and drinking his blood, we truly participate in that new creation ourselves as Christ nourishes us with his own life–a life-giving body and humanity. This is accomplished through the Spirit by whom we participate in that new life. This is the meaning I attach to “This is my body” and “This is my blood,” that is, it is a true communion with the life of Jesus. It that sense, since by the means of the bread and wine, Jesus is “on the table.”

Today: Jesus at the Table.

This is the major theme of my book Come to the Table.  My central thesis–though not the exclusive meaning of the Supper–is that Jesus sits at host of his table in the kingdom of God. The Living Christ is present at the table, seated with his welcome guests, eating and drinking with them, welcoming them to the table, and providing the meal as a gracious gift.

Several key phrases in the Gospel accounts of the Last Supper reflect this motif.  For example, Luke 22 announces Jesus’ intent to eat the Passover and drink the wine again when the meal finds its fulfillment in the kingdom of God (22:16-17). Jesus is no mere spectator at this meal, and neither is he merely the content of the meal (the Passover lamb). Rather, he is an active participant as he eats and drinks at the table.

More explicitly, in Matthew’s account, Jesus explicitly states his expectation that when he drinks the cup anew in the kingdom of God he will do so–as he says to his disciples–“with (meta) you” (26:29) just as earlier in the narrative Jesus had stated his intent “to keep the Passover…with (meta) my disciples” (26:18). In Matthew this is very significant language as he begins his gospel with the “Immanuel” which means “God with (meta) us” (1:23) and ends his gospel with the promise that the risen Lord would always be “with (meta) you” (28:20).

This language is pregnant with meaning and evokes significant theological reflection.  It is about presence, but more than presence.  It is about participation with, but more than even that.  It is about, in Matthew 26, a shared meal–a mutuality, a reciprocity, an experience of active communion with the living Christ.

At the table, Jesus hosts….eats and drinks…communes…shares…and loves. God is with us in the human, risen Christ and we eat at God’s table in God’s kingdom. We eat at the table of the king.

This is a gracious gift and a demonstration of the love of God. We–undeserving, unworthy–eat with God. We–unexpectedly, wondrously, joyfully–eat with Jesus.

In such a light, why does sadness dominate our tables in the church? Why can we not eat and drink with joy since we eat and drink with the living Christ? Jesus is at the table!

I recently returned from Lancaster, England, where I participated in the European Christian Workshop.  It was a wonderful event and I enjoyed my association with that group of Christians immensely. 

Asked to speak five times about the table (Lord’s Supper), my final lesson was thematic.  I wanted to share it with you since it is a different angle than what is present in some of my other writings on the topic.

I suggested three perspectives from which to view the table:

1. Jesus on the Table–the sacrifical victim who nourishes us with new life
2. Jesus at the Table–the hospitable host who welcomes all to the table
3. Jesus serving the Table–the master who waits on tables

Today:  Jesus on the Table.

I have sometimes heard it said that our assemblies should be reverent and solemn because “the dead body of Jesus is on the table.”  I understand that is arises from thinking about Jesus as the sacrificial victim who gave his life for others.  “This is my body which is given for you” or “This is my blood which is poured out for many.” This connects the table to the cross since Jesus gave his body on the cross and poured it out at the cross.  We eat the sacrificial victim just as Israel ate the Passover lamb and their thanksgiving sacrifices.

However, there is something amiss here. Is it the “dead body of Jesus” on the table?  I think not. Do we eat the dead body of Christ? I think not. For one thing, Jesus is not dead but alive.

My point is not about whether it is a literal body/blood or not, but what body/blood is offered to us in eating and drinking. Are we nourished in the Supper by the dead body of Jesus or the living, resurrected body of Christ?

This is where it is helpful to bring John 6 into the discussion where Jesus uses that strong, even offensive, language that except we eat his flesh and drink his blood we will not have eternal life.  In the context of John 6, the flesh and blood of Jesus are not understand as dead or sacrificed but as living nourishment.  It is the living flesh and blood of Jesus–it is the living Christ–which nourishes us. To eat the flesh of Jesus and to drink his blook is to intake life, an eternal life. It is to experience eschatological life, the life of the resurrected Jesus.

Resurrection language undergirds the teaching of Jesus in John 6. Whoever believes in the Son has eternal life and “I will raise him up on the last day” (6:40). Jesus is the living bread of life, and those who eat partake of life, eternal life. It is the flesh and blood of the eschatological, resurrected Son of Man that is given to us for eating and drinking. We don’t eat dead but living flesh. We don’t drink dried up blood but living blood.

Here is one way to visualize this.  I imagine that in eating and drinking we are lifted up into the presence of Christ by the power of the Holy Spirit.  The Spirit takes us into the throne room of God to feed on Christ, that is, to be nourished by the power of his resurrected life. Through our concrete, material, physical eating and drinking, the Spirit pours life into us by virtue of the life-giving reality of Jesus Christ. In this way, the Supper is, as Ignatius long ago said, a “medicine of immortality” (Ephesians 20:2). The Supper is a means by which we are nourished by and experience eternal life–a common theme in the Orthodox tradition over the centuries.

When Jesus was raised from the dead, he ascended to the right hand of the Father.  There he reigns as new human, the first of the new creation. His humanity is now life-giving and through him all creation will be renewed.  When we eat and drink, we participate in the new creation as we feed on his body and drink his blood, as we are nourished by new creation itself.

This feeding and drinking calls us to a new creation life even now. We are new creatures in Christ; we are empowered by his resurrected life. To eat and drink is to embrace the practice of new creation and mission of God for his creation.

Jesus is on the table through the bread and wine. But it is not the dead body of Christ, but the living, resurrected new creation. The living Christ is on the table and offers life everlasting but life as new creatures even now.

Last evening I attended the funeral of Dr. William E. Woodson, Sr.  I feel sad. I break my blog silence to remember this spiritual giant in my life.

Dr. Woodson was my first academic mentor. I had more classes under Woodson than any other teacher in my academic career.  I had my first and last Bible classes at Freed-Hardeman College (1974-1977) under Woodson.  The first was the Acts of the Apostles (I had a particular interest in Acts 8:37 and textual criticism, and he indulged me) and the last was a topical seminar on contemporary issues (I wrote on preterist eschatology). I had many between those, of course (including my first course in Church History).

Brother Woodson taught me to read the Bible for myself. He taught me to look carefully at the text, exegete its original meaning, and follow my convictions based on the text.  I learned from him, more than any other, to follow where the text leads me and to honor the text.

More than an academic mentor, he was a pastoral mentor to me.  For a year I travelled with brother Woodson every Sunday to preach at appointments.  I would lead singing and/or teach the Bible class and he would preach, or sometimes he would lead singing and/or teach the Bible class and I would preach.  That was an invaluable experience for a nineteen year old FHC student. The travel time was filled with humor, theological discussion and talk of family. Thank you for that special attention, my friend.

Throughout graduate school in PA and KY, Woodson followed my progress and was a constant encouragement to me. He would often remind about “the Lord’s church” and we would discuss the theology I was learning and taught.

When Sheila died in 1980, he was one of the first I went to see and he was one the first to communicate with me.

In the Spring of 1983, Woodson wanted me to come and teach at David Lipscomb College.  I interviewed and all was going well (as I remember), but I had also decided to marry Barbara.  Because she was a divorcee, that was a problem (an unwritten rule at Lipscomb at the time, I understand).  Woodson counseled me that sometimes, like King Edward of England, one chooses love over position.  He was kind, encouraging and honest with me.  I chose love rather than a position at Lipscomb.

As my theological orientation shifted–and I changed, he did not–we drifted apart as we were both consumed with our own interests and needs. I perceived this drift after the 1985 discussion William Woodson and Alan Highers had with Rubel Shelly and Monroe Hawley at Freed-Hardeman (published as The Restoration Movement and Unity in 1986).  That was a sad day for me as I watched two of my former professors at FHU, two wonderful friends from the 1970s, square off in a discussion which I thought was too personal and too negative.  I approached them both afterwards and expressed my sadness.

For some time after when I would travel to Nashville (which was fairly regular in the 1980s from Montgomery, AL) I would visit with both of them–sometimes back-to-back; first at Rubel’s office, then at William’s. It was a frustrating and sad time for me since I loved them both and honored both of them for what they had meant to me.

In 1992 I found myself on a panel with Woodson and Shelly at Harding University Graduate School of Religion. I had hoped for some reconciliation, and I wrote a paper which I hoped might tend toward that end (a book containing all the speeches and Q&A was published as Grace, Works, Faith: How Do They Relate?).  Ultimately, however, it did not facilitate reconciliation but polarized even further. I know I was never on the same platform with William and Rubel again or saw them on the same platform again (perhaps they were in another venue).

We drifted further apart and only remained in contact with each other a few times in the past decade. I regret that I did not make an effort to see him during that time. I am sorry, William, that we did not have another occasion to talk, laugh and remember together.

Whatever the meaning of the drift that separated us, William Woodson was a man of faith and was deeply convicted by what he believed Scripture to teach.  I honor that today and I honor how he impacted my life.  I am deeply grateful for his life of faith and the gift of teaching God gave him.

Thank you, brother Woodson.  I miss you and love you.   Enjoy your rest, my friend; one day I will join you around the throne of God.

Woodson’s obituary as well as opportunities to leave a message for the family is available here.

I have been taking some time to teach (two courses–one at Lipscomb and the other at Harding University Graduate School of Religion) early in June and to rest in the rest of June. Consequently, I have not been blogging with regularity over the past two months. I make no apologies for that.  🙂 But I will probably return with more regularity–at least by the middle of  August.  🙂 Summer beckons me to spend some time in self-care, family life, house work (especially after the flooding of my basement during Nashville’s May adventure), etc. Blogging will have to wait.

I did, however, want to post my contribution to the 2010 Christian Scholar’s  Conference the first week of June.  Tom Olbricht asked me to respond to Ron Highfield’s new book on the theology of God entitled Great is the Lord: Theology for the Praise of God.  My paper is entitled “The Simplicity of the Divine Nature: A Response to Ron Highfield’s Great is the Lord“.

Specifically, I was asked to review Highfield’s reflections on the traditional doctrine of divine simplicity, that is, that God’s being or essence does not belong to the same metaphysical categories as created reality. Simplicity denies that God has parts or is like a completed Lego set because this would imply that God participates in realities–as part of God’s essential Being–outside of the divine nature. God is not one being among others, but is the ground of being itself. God is Creator–the ground and origin of all other reality–rather than a participant in some greater or other reality.

For example, we do not say love is God or that God participates in holiness or even possesses holiness.  God does not possess attributes as if those properities have independent  reality. Rather, it is more biblical to say that God is love. God–whatever God is–is the reality of love, holiness, justice, etc. God is what God is. In other words, God is simple–one integrated, undivided essence. Simplicity, then, protects the aseity, uniqueness and independence of God.

Since I generally regard myself as a narrative theogian, I do not usually entertain such classic metaphysical discussions. At the same time, I see the point that links the narrative with the systematic theological point of simplicity. For example, simplicity reminds us that while we may use the language of different attributes or even assert that one attribute is central to God (whether it is glory, love or holiness), our fragmented picture of God is discursive rather than absolutely or essentially true. Simplicity, Highfield observes, “warns us not to take literally our affirmations about God” (p. 269). We understand that “God is love” through the self-emptying act of God in Jesus, but we do not thereby have a univocal grasp of what God’s own self-undestanding of love is. We understand only by analogy. Simplicity, thus, recognizes that God’s nature is an integrated whole rather than conflicted or fragmented. Simplicity reminds us that when we speak in fragmented terms about God (e.g., God is just and God is mercy, even to the point of placing those in opposition to each other), that fragmentation is part of our finitude rather than part of the divine essence.

God is what God is. That is the meaning of divine simplicity. I think Ron summarized and defended it well though I don’t think it entails the kind of immutability that he defends elsewhere in his book. But I will leave that for those who wish to read the paper itself.

I like the idea.  It is a wonderful point to emphasize. 

The church must not see itself as bounded by or confined by the four walls of its building. We have always known that the church is not the building but somehow we have tended to think or at least act as though the Sunday morning assembly is the center of Christian faith and practice.

While I think the assembly has tremendous sacramental importance and is transformative (as Gathered People seeks to demonstrate), it is just as important (perhaps more important given the traditions that have encrusted the assembly) to emphasize the significance of “leaving the building.” Spirituality is lived out 24/7 rather than one or two hours a week.

But I think there is a deeper problem here.  In fact, the church leaves the building every Sunday. They don’t stay inside–they go home as families, they go to work, they go play. The church is on the go. The church has already left the building.

The problem is, it seems to me, that when the church leaves the bulding we have a tendency to compartmentalize our lives. When the church leaves the building, we leave “church” behind in the building. We go to “work” and our careers become an insulated dimension often devoid of spirituality.  We go to “play” and our recreation becomes an isolated reality disconnected from our spirituality.  We go “home” and our families become a separate entity detached from “church.”

But we are still “church” even when we are with our families, at work or at play.  And, I think, we are often “being church” in those contexts except we sometimes don’t have a sufficient understanding of “spirituality” or “practicing the kingdom of God” to appreciate how deeply connected we already are to those environs as church.

For example, most Christians are invovled in kingdom-building in their careers and they perhaps don’t even realize it. Teachers in the public schools (not just “Christian” schools) are doing the  kingdom work of equipping young people for productive future lives; health-care workers are doing the kingdom work of healing and caregiving; lawyers (we hope) are doing the kingdom work of justice; etc., etc., etc.  

This is where we need a deeper theology of vocation.  Our identity is that we are the image of God and our vocation is to participate in the mission of God. Our careers should express our vocation; our “work” life serves the kingdom of God, the mission of God. Can we identify how our career–our jobs–participate in the mission of God? When we do, we are partly on our way to recognizing, at least in part, how the church has already left the building as church.

Yes, let us emphasize the fact that the church must leave the building. Let us challenge and call “church-goers” to also be the church in every aspect of their lives.  At the same time, let us recognize that many are actually being the church in their work, famlies and recreation as they “practice the kingdom of God” in every aspect of their lives.

We often call it the “conversion of Cornelius.” And, indeed, that is a significant moment. Cornelius was a Roman centurion—the commander of 80 men (sort of like a Captain of a company, though centurions could rank much higher in a Legion—stationed in Palestine. This was no honored placement. It was like soldiering on the Eastern Front during World War II. It was hostile, unpleasant and potentially explosive.

But Cornelius was a devout man who prayed incessantly and gave alms to the poor. God heard his prayers and honored his gifts. But that does not strike us as earth-shattering as it was in Palestinian Judaism. We are too tamed by the story, domesticated by hearing it innumerable times.

Let me say it again. God heard the prayers of a pagan soldier who served in the regime of an imperial nation that oppressed God’s people! Does God hear the prayers of a devout, alms-giving Taliban foot-soldier on the border of Pakistan and Afghanistan? What Jew would have dreamed that God would hear the prayer of a Roman commander? But he did.

This shocked everyone. It even, I think, shocked Cornelius. His rush to obey God, his obeisance to Peter when he arrived at his house, and his willingness to believe and do whatever Peter told him point toward not only the excitement Cornelius felt but his utter gratitude that God answered his prayer.

Everyone included Peter. Even though he had announced that the promise of the gospel was for even those who were “afar off” in his Pentecost homily, he was unprepared for the three visitors who came from Cornelius’ house in Caesarea to the tanner’s house in Joppa. The Holy Spirit had to tell him to go with them as if Peter was racked with confusion and uncertainty.

Peter’s response was understandable. He had been taught the difference between clean and unclean all his life—clean food and unclean food, clean people and unclean people. And the Gentiles were, as a class, unclean. There was no touching them, there was no visiting them, and certainly there was no eating with them allowed within the halls of Jewish Orthodoxy.

When God told Peter in a vision to kill and eat unclean food, he refused. He reminded God of how he was raised and that only kosher food had touched his lips. Three times—mirroring the three who came from Caesarea—God invited him to eat and Peter refused. Refusing to eat what God has provided is no small act.

Perhaps Peter thought God was testing him; perhaps it was a false vision, even a temptation from Satan himself. But it was actually the first step in Peter’s conversion. He received Cornelius’ friends and they stay the evening in Joppa (they must have been Jewish friends of Cornelius—Cornelius was probably a “God-fearer”). He goes to Cornelius’ house, hears his story and concludes what he had been previously unable to even conceive, that is, God is no respecter of persons and whoever does what is right is honored by God, even among the nations (Gentiles).

But the story is not over. There is yet another conversion to come. It is the conversion of the church itself.

When Jerusalem heard that Peter had gone to the Gentiles—a Roman soldier no less—and ate with them, they were dismayed, scandalized and perhaps even hostile. Remember that those who are “zealous for the law” (even if they had become Christ-followers, as in Acts 21:20; cf. ) are hostile to any Jew who violates the traditions of the fathers, especially when it involves relationships with Gentiles, much less Roman soldiers. Circumcision—an Abrahamic covenant—must be maintained and the distinction between clean and unclean must be practiced even if Gentiles become Christ-followers. They must, so many believed, live by the Torah and embrace the covenant of Abraham through circumcision. This hostility continued for decades within the early church as it even fueled some of Paul’s letters like Galatians.

The book of Acts tells the story of Cornelius three times. The only other story it narrates three times is the conversion of Saul. This was a community-altering event in the life of church. It changed the church, and church had to undergo a conversion. The church had to rethink how it thought about Gentiles, related to Gentiles; it had to think about how it would receive Gentiles and live in the community with Gentiles; it had to think about how Jews and Gentiles could eat together, even eat the Lord’s Supper together given their divergent table manners.

That must have been an excruciating process filled with doubts, discomfort, and fear. Certainly in Acts 11 the church hears Peter’s report with joy and praises God. But the church has to hear it again in Acts 15, along with Paul and Barnabas’ missionary report as well as James rehearsal of Scripture to be convinced. Even then the Gentiles had to accommodate some Jewish sensibilities such as not eating food that had been strangled. That the process was frustratingly slow is evident when Peter himself felt so much pressure in Antioch that he withdrew from eating with Gentile Christ-followers in order to smooth the ruffled feathers of some from Jerusalem.

Gentiles in the church are fine as long as they are not in our local congregation, or as long as I don’t have to eat with them, right?

The conversion process for the church was filled with pitfalls—starts and stops and start ups again. The centuries of hostility, mistrust and scruples did not cease with one conversion in Caesarea. We might even wonder if the process was ever actually completed as the church failed to learn to live together as Jew and Gentile in peace and harmony (see Romans 14-15).

Sometimes the church needs conversion. When the church becomes encrusted in its traditional practices….when the church erects cultural or racial barriers….when the church favors particular habits over people….when the church finds spirituality only within the walls of its buildings…when the church is so territorial that it fails to plant new congregations…it needs conversion.

Sometimes the church needs conversion. It needs to hear the voice of God anew. It needs to listen to the stories of God’s work among people. It needs to hear the testimony of changed lives.

Given the history of the church in many places, no wonder that those outside the church retort back to it, “heal thyself.” Sometimes the church needs conversion just as much as those outside of it.

“All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”

[Of course, the kind of play that Jack had in mind in The Shining is not what I have in mind here. :-)]

Perhaps that originated as a Puritan excuse for recreation. I don’t know. It seems like a justification, but play needs no justification anymore than work does. Both are built into creation. God created playfulness.

Indeed, God is playfulness; his wisdom creates with delight, joy and play. Personified Divine Wisdom in Proverbs 8 not only describes herself as a “master worker” but also as one who daily rejoices (shahak) as she delights in the creation (Provers 8:30-31). Divine wisdom is not all work and no play.

The Hebrew word shahak has a wide variety of meanings from playing on an instrument to laughing another to scorn (mocking); from recreational sports to laughing with joy. And it is a term used to describe the playfulness of creation, both the fish of the sea and the beasts of the field. There is a time to weep, says the Preacher in Ecclesiastes 3, but there is also a time to “laugh” (shahak).

In Yahweh’s description of the Behemoth (perhaps a mythologically sized hippopatmus—Egyptian iconography pictures Horus fighting such an animal), God declares sovereignty over the animal (Job 40:19-20, NRSV). “Only the Maker can approach it with the sword.” Part of this sovereignty is that the “mountains yield food for it where all the wild animals play (shahak).

Also in Psalm 104, the Leviathan (also pictured in Job 41) is Yahweh’s proud example of the creatures of the sea in his aquarium. Wherever ships go upon the sea—wherever humans go—God has already created fish (particularly the Leviathan) to “sport” (shahak) in it” (NRSV) or “frolic” there (NIV).

God enjoys, as we do, the playfulness of his creatures. Who cannot smile as they watch otters play in the water?

Certainly “work”—priestly service in God’s temple of creation—is part of divine intent. We see it in the Garden. This is the dignity of work, careers and jobs. It is the task we have been given as we participate in the missio Dei.

But play is also part of that creation. Creation is not only a workplace but a playground.

The eschatological vision—the restoration and renewal of the heavens an earth, the return of God to Zion in the New Jerusalem—includes play. When God again dwells with his people in Jerusalem, “the streets of the city shall be full of boys and girls playing (shahak) in its streets” (Zechariah 8:5, NRSV). On that day, according to Jeremiah 31:4, God will rebuild Jerusalem and the people of God will take up tambourines and enjoy the city in playful dance (shahak; literally, “the dances of play/sport/laughter”).

All work and no play makes creation a dull place.

Now, Cubbies, “play [some good] ball”!  🙂