Humanizing Christ

 "and they twisted together a crown of thorns and set it on his head. They put a staff in his right hand. Then they knelt in front of him and mocked him." —Matthew 27:29

"Behold the Man"  by Antonio Ciseri

During Lent I’ve noticed how much oppression and evil in the world is tolerated, ignored, and even supported by those who identify as Christians. There seems to be very little correlation between the life of Jesus and the life of his followers. Sadly, what I and many others see are self-identifying Christians becoming more openly cruel and oppressive under the standard of the Cross. What is going on here? 

I believe it is how we understand Christ, our Christology, if you will. Christology is just a fancy theological term for the nature and work of Jesus of Nazareth. The dominant theology in the West is focused almost entirely on the divinity of Jesus. Unfortunately this understanding comes at the expense of his humanity. And ours. It has taken my entire life to realize this.

During my time in the church, I cannot recall hearing a sermon about the humanity of Jesus. Rarely did I hear a teaching about the Beatitudes, the Sermon on the Mount, or Jesus' encounters with outcasts. I heard many sermons and teachings about the fate of "sinners in the hands of an angry god," the evils of the world, the dangers of liberal thought, warnings about sexual taboos, and of course sermons hawking for money. Most of what I heard was fear-inducing and transactional. It was all about "the deal" of accepting Jesus and having my sins washed away. Having read the bible several times and the Gospels in particular, I began to see the human side of Jesus. Seeing the humanity of Jesus made the humanity of others visible to me.

Among his first public acts Jesus touched a leper. In Jesus' day, no one touched a leper. Jesus' touch healed the man. Sometimes we breeze over that passage and fail to see the human connection in that moment. That man may not have felt another human touch in years. When Jesus connected his own humanity with the humanity of the leper, he rehumanized him! The man's healing was social as well as physical. After that encounter and the healing of the centurion's servant, some folks were zealous to follow him. But what Jesus had done was a radically political act. It violated social and religious norms, and as such the action carried considerable risk. Jesus warned his would-be acolytes about the cost, a cost he never failed to fully disclose. He warned them of the consequence of his all-embracing humanity,  "the son of man has no place to lay his head" (Matthew 8:20). Note that in calling himself "the son of man" Jesus underscores his humanity. It's a phrase he uses many times in the gospels.

In acknowledging and illuminating the humanity of others,  Jesus confronted power structures that were built on a hierarchy of castes. The caste systems required a dehumanization of scapegoated people and separating them into strata of society. Jesus challenged the system by recognizing the humanity  of outcasts publicly. This was the light of Jesus. So, if Jesus was fully human, if indeed he was the light and life of men, the question arises, did he have a shadow? 

All those we generally accept as heroes, Lincoln, Gandhi, Bonhoeffer, and MLK to name a few, were flawed human beings. But their deaths made them martyrs. The passage of time and selective positivity of their biographers obscures our knowledge of the full range of their humanity. All these men, these heroes, had their shadows. They didn’t deny their shadows. Indeed in the light of day, their shadows proved they had human substance. Even Jesus had his shadow, the proof of his human substance.

“Could you not stay with me for one hour?”

“My God My God Why have you forsaken me?” 

When we dehumanize our heroes, we deny their human substance and make them inaccessible. I will go so far as to say we have dehumanized Jesus. Our Christology only sees his divinity and denies his humanity, therefore the substance of Jesus' teachings are ignored. His humanity is inaccessible to us. And when we have dehumanized Jesus, what light is left in our Christian religion?

The dehumanization that precedes all the others is the dehumanization of Jesus Christ. The dehumanization of Jesus is a fact of history, but it is also accepted as Christology (the nature of Jesus). We emphasized his deity at the negation of his humanity. Once we dehumanize our prophets, we kill them. Then we are free to build statues, shrines, and construct religions around them. Their very human biographies are lost and replaced with our hagiographies. We ascribe to them what we want to believe.

When Jesus "let his light shine" he illuminated "the least of these." He saw them. And he didn't just see them, he saw himself in them! So much so that he equated any good or evil done them as done to himself. So what can we do? Can we let our little light shine on the holy in the everyday, the mundane? It is possible to see (recognize) the holy and transcendent that is already here in everyday life:

"We have so little of each other, now. So far from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange. What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these fleeting temples we make together when we say, "Here, have my seat," "Go ahead — you first," "I like your hat." "  —Danusha Laméris, Small Kindnesses

It's that simple. It only requires us to slow down and look. To place ourselves in the shoes of others. To equate their wellbeing with ours. Then we will recognize the humanity of our fellow human beings. And when we see Christ in others, our kindness becomes a sacrament.

“if you have done it to the least of these, you have done it unto me [Christ].” 

Conscious recognition of holy moments. Recognition of the humanity of others. All others. Including those deemed to be "The Wretched of the Earth." Jesus has shown us the way, the truth, and the life. 

  

The Shadow of the Cross

"It was now about noon, and darkness came over the land..." Luke 23:44-46 

In the Gospel accounts of Jesus' crucifixion, we are told it became very dark from mid-day until three in the afternoon. During the three hours leading up to Christ's death, the cross cast no shadow! So how can we speak of a Shadow of the Cross? What might that darkness be? Perhaps that darkness is our shadow, the collective shadow that is cast by all of us. 

The Crucifixion was human darkness made manifest, the culmination of a plot by religious leaders to turn public opinion against Jesus and persuade the political rulers to use the force of law to execute him. The religious leaders were envious of Jesus. They hated him. They feared him. But it the end, they came up with a pragmatic reason to do away with him:

“What are we accomplishing?” they asked. “Here is this man performing many signs. If we let him go on like this, everyone will believe in him, and then the Romans will come and take away both our temple and our nation.” —John 11:47-48

They thought they were going to lose their temple and their country. (They lost them anyway). 

The desire to preserve an identity, a status, a way of life, and a social order can motivate human beings to take action. But the fear of losing these things can move human beings to do awful things and turn a blind eye to the suffering of others in the process. Fear drives the dark side of humanity. It is humanity's dark side. Humanity's shadow if you will. And the shadow is not just a general darkness of humanity, it is the dark side of each one of us!

We like to consider ourselves "good-hearted" and most of the time we are. However, we may carry a hidden and deep-seated resentment. Or more often, a deep seated sense of self-importance. It’s the kind of thing we slide through much of life not even noticing it until something brings it to the surface. We have a shadow, but it is hidden until something brings it to light. Often the trigger is something mundane. Someone cuts us off in traffic. Or takes too long at the self-checkout. Or disagrees with us in front of others. And then our "dark side" comes out. For me, impatience and anger are the shadows I know I've cast. But there are others: 

The Shadow of Misogyny The belief that the male is the provider and protector and controller of the agency of women whether they be his employees, his spouse, or his daughters. If there is an issue of his anger, his lust, his temptation, then fault must lie with the women in his life. The man projects the shadow of his flawed relationship with himself onto women.

The Shadow of Poverty The belief that I had complete agency over the station in life I inhabit. That my success had nothing to do with my birth, my upbringing, my race, my family's wealth, or that all these factors had nothing to do with my success. If on the other hand someone is poor, that is their fault. My shadow accuses poor people of making bad choices and ignores the environment in which they are forced to make those choices. Society's shadow is how wealth is built at the expense of the poor:

"The wages you failed to pay the workers who mowed your fields are crying out against you." —James 5:4

The Shadow of Racism This is really the shadow of our caste system as marked by race. We don't believe we are racist, claim people of other races as our friends, and we would probably vehemently deny it confronted. Yet we are quite comfortable at our place in the social hierarchy and more often than not, vote for people who promise to secure our place in it, even if it means oppression for others. Our shadow is the darkness we project on others:  

"The white man's unadmitted and apparently, to him, unspeakable private fears and longings are projected onto the Negro" —James Baldwin

The Shadow of The Market  The shadow of "the market" is its amorality. It is the economic framework of social Darwinism. The market assumes winners and losers and if you lose, too bad for you. The other shadow of "the market" is it's failure to account for externalities, the costs it keeps off the books. Things like damage to the earth wrought by extraction, industrialization, the discarding of waste to the damage done to humans by robbing us of the time we need for social reproduction, our capacity of "birthing and raising children, caring for friends and family members, maintaining households and broader communities" —Nancy Fraser 

The Shadow of The Valley of Death  Our shadow believes in "eye for an eye" justice. We may venerate the "Stations of the Cross" pondering the steps that led to the execution of Jesus, and yet support the death penalty and an ubiquitous gun culture which kills more children than any other cause. Our shadow enables a profit-focused agribusiness that drives family farms out of business, poisons land and water, and manufactures cheap, unhealthy food for the masses. Our shadow enables a for-profit healthcare system that charges exorbitant fees and denies care. If we are privileged with wealth, we can choose to eat healthy and exercise, shielded from the most pernicious consequences of this system, which fall like a consuming shadow on the working poor.

We are formed by these shadows, but we also form and reinforce them. Our shadows multiply as the sum of all of us into what we call "society":

"If you don’t know how your mind reacts, if your mind is not aware of its own activities, you will never find out what society is . . . because your mind is part of society; it is society. . . . It is not distinct from your culture, from your religion, from your various class divisions, from the ambitions and conflicts of the many. All this is society, and you are part of it. There is no “you” separate from society."  —Jiddu Krishnamurti [1895–1986] 

Society defends its image by punishing those who would make its shadow visible. The Roman Empire used crucifixion on a cross as both a punishment and a warning to would be disrupters. In those days Roman roads in Judea were lined with crosses on which hung malcontents, zealots, murders, and thieves. In an arid and sunny land the shadows of crosses testified to the brutality of men. The last thing the condemned would see was their own crucified shadow. But on the day the Son of Man hung on a Roman cross, there was no shadow. The darkness of what humanity had done was overwhelming. 

The ultimate evidence of our shadow is our denial that we even have one. Western civilization tells a flattering story about itself that lists its achievements in the arts and sciences, technological prowess, but downplays and denies its darkness. If the darkness is not denied outright, then it is spun into something good. The annihilation of the indigenous becomes "discovery." War becomes "liberation." Separation becomes "equality." Religion is particularly adept at this. The Crucifixion of Jesus becomes our salvation. Baptism becomes our citizenship. Confession becomes absolution. But none of these things, nor our beliefs about their efficacy, confront our shadow. The only solution is to admit to our shadow. But our ego gets in the way:

“We can patiently accept not being good. What we cannot bear is not being considered good, not appearing good.” —St. Francis of Assisi

In order to appear to be a good person to others, we deny, suppress, and try to hide our darkness:

“Abstract speculation can create an image of God that is foreign to the human heart. . . [A God that does not contain our shadows.] Then we try to live up to the standards of a God that is purely light, and we can’t handle the darkness within us. And because we can’t handle it, we suppress it. But the more we suppress it, the more it leads its own life, because it’s not integrated. Before we know it, we are in serious trouble.” —Bro David Steindl-Rast, The Shadow in Chrisitanity

We cannot purge out all our darkness. The best we can do is humbly admit that we have it and integrate it into the wholeness of our being. 

“Consider Gandhi, Oskar Schindler, Martin Luther King Jr. Add to them Rosa Parks, Mother Teresa, Dorothy Day, Óscar Romero, César Chávez, and many unsung leaders. Their inspiring witness offers us strong evidence that the mind of Christ still inhabits the world. Most of us are fortunate to have crossed paths with many lesser-known persons who exhibit the same presence. I can’t say how one becomes such a person. All I can presume is that they were all called.

They all had their Christ moments, in which they stopped denying their own shadows, stopped projecting those shadows elsewhere, and agreed to own their deepest identity in solidarity with the world.” —Fr Richard Rohr

So when will we stop denying our shadows? And the shadows of society? Because when we do, we will have our “Christ moment” and a true salvation will be at hand.

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Jesus Enters Our World

Today is Palm Sunday, when the Christian world observes Jesus' entrance into Jerusalem. Jesus was welcomed into the city by the common people, but he was feared by the religious leaders.

The symbolism of Jesus riding into Jerusalem on a donkey was understood as the fulfilment of Scripture, “Your king comes to you meek and riding on an ass..."(Zechariah 9:9). But it was understood differently, depending on which group was watching the event unfold. 

The people, oppressed by a foreign power, were looking for relief. They saw Jesus as their liberation. 

The leaders, looking to keep their grip on power, were looking for threats. They saw Jesus as their enemy.

“Where you stand changes what you see” — Gustavo Gutiérrez

Jesus was causing quite a stir even though many people were not aware of who he was.  

When Jesus entered Jerusalem, the whole city was stirred.
People asked, "Who is this?" (Matthew 21:10)

But the religious leaders knew. The High Priest comprehended that the very presence of Jesus in their city was "rocking the boat" of their precarious power alliance with the Roman government. The leaders soon conspired to apprehend Jesus out of public view, present him as a criminal influence to the Roman governor, turn the common people against Him, and finally accuse Him of sedition to have Jesus condemned. 

“The unholy alliance of religion and politics collaborated in finding Jesus guilty.”
—Eugene H. Peterson

The centers of religious and political power were doing what they have always done, divide the people up against each other and crush any prophetic voice that would challenge their position. People in power always rely on the same tools against their enemies: lies, slander, and accusations. Too often, we fall for these deceptions.

Palm Sunday begins Holy Week, the remembrance of  Jesus' final week, his betrayal, crucifixion, and as Christian believe, the Resurrection. We are taught that this is the week that Jesus died to save us from our sins. But what sins? Having an impure thought? A flash of anger or jealousy? Failing to observe the sacrament? Missing services? Not dropping money in the plate? What sins? What sins was Jesus dying for that week? Perhaps it is this one:

“Sin, he reflected, is not what it is usually thought to be; it is not to steal and tell lies. Sin is for one man to walk brutally over the life of another and to be quite oblivious of the wounds he has left behind.” —Shusaku Endo, “Silence”

In the service of power and profit, our society walks brutally over the life of others. While the powerful deliberately harm the dignity, the humanity, and the voices of others, more often we stand aside in silence as it happens. Can we accept that not only did Jesus' die to save us from that sin but the manner in which in died shows us what that sin looks like?  

Jesus showed us what this sin really looks like when we desecrate the Image of God in others. May we be so revolted by the ugliness of dehumanization that we truly repent of it, our participation in it, our  quiet complicity in it. May we resolve to follow the example of Jesus, to re-humanize those that others have rejected, to bring encouragement and joy to their existence. 

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The Imperishable Flame

 

Two thousand years ago, in a land on the eastern shore of the Mediterranean Sea, a man displaced by legal decree searched desperately for a safe place for his wife to give birth. Two years after the child was born they were displaced again as they fled “The Slaughter of the Innocents.” The king was just “mowing the grass,” a routine part of his periodic killing sprees to remind his subjects who was boss and to make sure no one would rise up against him. The king was paranoid about losing his power even though ironically, his rule was dependent on the whims of  a much larger empire. 

Thirty years later, the child became a man who confronted the power structure not by force of arms, but by rehumanizing the outcasts. The hierarchy of the power structure was built on a foundation of people at the bottom: the diseased, the disabled, the foreigner, and women. This man challenged the system by recognizing their humanity publicly. As a result he gained a following large enough to catch the notice of the powers that be. The religious and political leaders considered him a threat to their precarious alliance, so they conspired to have him charged with a crime and executed in what today we call a targeted killing. 

In the subsequent years this man's followers gathered in his name and broke bread together. They took his teachings to heart to welcome the stranger, bear ill will towards none, nor raise a sword against another human being. Their numbers spread throughout the land. But their growth was perceived as a threat so they were persecuted as enemies of the empire. A few centuries later, the tables turned when an emperor saw their faith not as a threat, but an opportunity. The followers were not just welcomed as friends of the empire, they became the religion of the empire. They would become the empire’s standard-bearers. The persecuted would become persecutors. 

The religion of the empire became so focused on miracle, mystery, and authority that it lost touch with humanity, its own and the humanity of others. The religion and the empire became so intertwined as to be indistinguishable. It fomented internicene battles, inquisitions, tortures, and crusades. It gave its blessings to conquests and subjugations. It became a  grotesque caricature of the beliefs and goodness it claimed to hold. 

But there were those brave few who remembered the teachings and the humanity of the one they followed. They renounced the trappings of empire: wealth, position, and violence. They spread their faith not by argument nor by the sword, but by their example of breaking bread with each other and sharing their bread with those rejected by the empire. They were never a majority. They often faced persecution for rejecting the values of the empire. But they were enough to keep an imperishable flame lit in the hearts of those who followed the way.

Awakening from the Sleep of Inhumanity

 

The Lenten season marks a time of fasting and self-examination for those of us who observe. It is supposed to be a time of repentance from sin and awakening to the spiritual dimension of our lives.  However, if Lent or other religious observances are supposed to be mark a time of awakening, then what are we awaking from? Sin?  Indifference? Materialism? Secularism? Greed? Intolerance? Hatred? Could there be a deeper sleep or torpor that we need to be awakened from?

In his book, The Principle of Mercy, Jesuit priest Jon Sobrino recalls his arrival in El Salvador and his immersion into the grinding poverty and oppression of the people there. It forced him to reframe his life in light a more fundamental question: 

“Are we really human and, if we are believers, is our faith human?”

Living among the people of El Salvador, he discovers the answer to that question: 

“to change our vision in order to see what had been there, unnoticed, all along, and to change hearts of stone into hearts of flesh — in order to let ourselves be moved to compassion and mercy.”

How could we be sleeping in a state of inhumanity? After all, in our personal dealings we are genuinely nice people. To the people we encounter, our family, friends, and co-workers, we are kind. But how about the people we don't encounter directly, the people we don't often see? Those who are part of the  infrastructure of humanity that makes our life possible.

We need to awaken to the fact that our life in modernity is only possible because of the people who work in supply chains, the people who plant, harvest, prepare, and deliver bread, produce, and meat to our grocery stores. Nearly everything we own and everything we wear is manufactured by people somewhere in the world.  The miracle of technology enables goods to be delivered to our doorstep with the tap on our smartphones. But the miracle of technology still needs the labor of human beings. It does not occur to us that the supply chain might be an actual chain, enslavement by other means, forcing people to work for inhumanly long hours, in occupations where people spend every waking hour just to survive. 

The sleep of our inhumanity might just be concealing idolatry. That is a strong statement. Our idolatry might not be our physical bowing down to a golden calf. Our idolatry is our unquestioned commitment to the structures that maintain our comfort, our society, and the social order. Sobrino writes:

“... it is clear that the true God is at war with other gods. These are the idols, the false divinities — though they are real enough — which Archbishop Romero has concretized for our time in speaking of the absolutization of exploitative capitalism and "national security." Idols dehumanize their worshipers, but their ultimate evil lies in the fact that they demand victims in order to exist. If there is one single deep conviction I have acquired in El Salvador, it is that such idols are real. They are not the inventions of so-called primitive peoples but are indeed active in modern societies. We dare not doubt this, in view of such idols' innumerable victims: the poor, the unemployed, the refugees, the detainees, the tortured, the disappeared, the massacred. And if idols do exist, then the issue of faith in God is very much alive.”

We may feel justified simply because we believe in God. But Sobrino shows us that faith is not only a matter of belief but of choice. Sobrino tells us that our beliefs must explicitly specify what we do believe in and what we do not believe in. 

“That is the reason we humans must make a choice not only between faith and atheism but between faith and idolatry. In a world of victims, little can be known about a person simply because he calls himself a believer or a nonbeliever. It is imperative to know in which God she believes and against which idols she does battle. If such a person is truly a worshiper of idols, it matters little whether he accepts or denies the existence of a transcendent being. There really is nothing new in that: Jesus affirmed it in his parable of the last judgment.”

An idolatrous society is necessarily a merciless society. Sobrino says, “idols demand victims.” Who among us can deny that our society is merciless to those on its periphery?  We dismiss the suffering as victims because we don't consider them neighbors. We are all familiar with Jesus' admonition to “love our neighbors as ourselves.” In Luke chapter 10, a teacher of the law responded to Jesus' teaching by asking “who is my neighbor?” Jesus then told him the story of the Good Samaritan and asked the teacher, “who was a neighbor to the man who was beaten by the robbers?” The Good Samaritan was good because he was merciful. He performed a charitable act, a singular act of mercy. The Gospel doesn't tell us anymore about the Samaritan, so we don't know if this was his pattern of life, a principle of mercy. 

If you dare go further down this road, read the book The Principle of Mercy (Google Book Preview).

The Fullness of Time

 

"in the fullness of time, Christ was born" —Galatians 4:4

2020 has certainly been a turbulent year. A disorienting year. The year of COVID. A year when the conflicts that have been festering in American society rose to the surface. A year when the scabs covering racial wounds were torn off to reveal the open sores that had never healed. A year when our health care system and its practitioners were strained to the breaking point. A year when so many have died. A year of added economic hardship for the many who were barely surviving.  A year when increasing inequality made record profits for a few. 

A year when so many daily rituals and routines have been upended. A year when it has been difficult to define or even mark time as one day blurs into the next. Christ also arrived in a turbulent year; his birthplace was under occupation. Religious leaders conspired with rulers of the empire to maintain power over oppressed people. It would seem to have been the worst time to bring a child into the world. Yet it was the fullness of time, the completion of time, or better yet, the right time for Christ to be born.

How can a wrong time be the right time?

The angel went to her and said, “Greetings, you who are highly favored! The Lord is with you.” Mary was greatly troubled at his words and wondered what kind of greeting this might be. But the angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary; you have found favor with God. You will conceive and give birth to a son, and you are to call him Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over Jacob’s descendants forever; his kingdom will never end.” —Luke 1:28-33

Mary was perplexed:

“How will this be,” Mary asked the angel, “since I am a virgin?” —Luke 1:34

For Mary, this was not the right time.  Yet it was.  The Romans had brought a system of roads, common language, and trade connecting Palestine and Judea with the rest of the known world. The Roman Empire encompassed a huge swath of land, from the Britannia to Persia and India. The reality of travel and communication that was inconceivable in ancient times was now possible. The world was ready for the gospel of Christ to spread.

Hannah Arendt called this time of possibility, this time of new life, natality.

“The miracle that saves the world, the realm of human affairs, from its normal, natural ruin is ultimately the fact of natality,...  It is, in other words, the birth of new men and the new beginning, the action they are capable of by virtue of being born. Only the full experience of this capacity can bestow upon human affairs faith and hope,... It is this faith in and hope for the world that found perhaps its most glorious and most succinct expression in the few words with which the Gospels announced their "glad tidings": "A child has been born unto us".—Hannah Arendt

Prior to the birth of Christ, the people had endured centuries of darkness and uncertainty. The Babylonians conquered the land and took the people into exile.  Persia conquered Babylon and sent the exiles home to rebuild Jerusalem. A moment of hope only to be crushed by another conquest, this time by Alexander. The Maccabees stood fast against the heirs of Alexander to ignite an insurgency against oppression, celebrated to this day as Hanukkah. Another moment of hope. And then the final crushing blow came when the Romans conquered the land. To generations of a people, barely clinging to hope, the times seemed darker than ever. Then, something happened, that Hannah Arendt expresses as “something so unexpectedly and unpredictably new that neither hope nor fear could have anticipated it... [which] set the stage for an entirely new world”. The birth of Christ was about to change the world.

Ironically, news of this pivotal event was not given to the leaders in the halls of power, but to the "essential workers" out in the fields:

“And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Christ, the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger. ” —Luke 2:8-12

Thirty years later, Jesus would grow up and begin his ministry echoing the words of Isaiah:

“The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to set the oppressed free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”

This right time was “the year of the Lord’s favor.” But the right time is rarely a safe time. Proclaiming the right message at the right time almost got Jesus thrown off a cliff:

 “I assure you that there were many widows in Israel in Elijah’s time, when the sky was shut for three and a half years and there was a severe famine throughout the land. Yet Elijah was not sent to any of them, but to a widow in Zarephath in the region of Sidon. And there were many in Israel with leprosy in the time of Elisha the prophet, yet not one of them was cleansed—only Naaman the Syrian.”

All the people in the synagogue were furious when they heard this. They got up, drove him out of the town, and took him to the brow of the hill on which the town was built, in order to throw him off the cliff.”

They were not angry with Jesus for proclaiming benefits of healing, freedom, and forgiveness of debt ("the year of the Lord's favor.") They were angry because Jesus touched their idol, their religious nationalism, when he suggested that Elijah was sent to people other than Israel. 

So what about our time? In many ways this is a dangerous time. A plague has overtaken our land. Many are in economic distress. Politics are more divisive than ever. Religious nationalism has reared its ugly head. The sense that this is a dark time is hard to miss. This is definitely a pivotal moment. Things could go either way. As Sikh activist and author Valarie Kaur asks, “Is this a darkness of the tomb or a darkness of the womb?” Is this dark time the transition to the birth of something new? It all depends on how we respond to questions of this moment. 

The fullness of time always culminates in a specific moment. A live birth or a stillbirth takes place. In this moment is juxtaposed the promise of new life along side the risk of death. In choosing to say "Yes" to this moment, new possibilities arise. Possibilities we had not considered before.

We don't get to choose when we encounter these moments. Life asks the question and offers its fulfilment as the answer. Will our response be born of preparedness? Mary had no idea what would be asked of her, no comprehension of the joy and heartbreak that awaited her, but she was prepared to answer. 

So the question is: is this our moment? And what question is life, in this moment, asking of us? Mary answered "Yes". What will our answer be?

Stones of Remembrance

 

And Joshua set up at Gilgal the twelve stones they had taken out of the Jordan. He said to the Israelites, “In the future when your descendants ask their parents, ‘What do these stones mean?’ tell them, ‘Israel crossed the Jordan on dry ground.’ 

—Joshua 4:20-22

In this story from the Torah, Joshua had instructed the Israelites to carry stones out of the Jordan river and arrange them as a memorial of their crossing. Leaving memorials in stone is a uniquely human thing we do. From ancient cave drawings, to pyramids, obelisks, statues, or simple grave markers, we leave our mark on stones, so that future generations would know we existed.

On May 24, 2020, the New York Times published excerpts of the obituaries of some of the 100,000 lives lost to the COVID pandemic ravaging this country. People from all walks of life. Parents, children, wives, husbands, professionals, veterans, and laborers. The AFL-CIO had previously posted a scrolling list of their members who died in New York due to COVID. On that list were everyday people, teachers, communications workers, healthcare workers, transportation workers, and grocers. Just ordinary people, “essential” workers in our current parlance. Everyday heroes who carried out their duties despite the risk. While these were electronic, virtual publications, most of these lives will eventually have their names marked in stone by their loved ones. Stones of remembrance. 

May 24, 2020 falls on a Memorial Day weekend. It is a time when we pause to remember the people who gave their lives in our country’s conflicts. Whatever our judgments about the nature of these conflicts, we ought to remember people who fulfilled their responsibilities at the cost of their lives. Their gravestones cover the hills of our military cemeteries as far as the eye can see. Stones of remembrance.

Of all the creatures on Earth, we humans have the ability to build a “durable world” as Hannah Arendt called it. We leave our mark. We alone have a written language allowing us to leave a record, discoveries, and hopefully, lessons learned. We memorialize the people we leave behind. Ultimately, we will be memorialized and become the ancestors of future generations. What will they remember of us?

Will they remember this period as a time when we let our rancor take us into a needlessly lethal pandemic and then onto a second Great Depression? Will homelessness, illness, and hunger reach record levels? Or will we look back on this time and recognize it as a pivotal point in history when people of good will seized this moment to build a more just, a more sustainable society?

The fewest of words for posterity are marked on our grave stones. The name of the deceased. The date of birth and death, separated by a hyphen. In that hyphen is our entire lives. When people come upon our graves one day in the future, what will they remember? What will they tell their children?