It is called saving and, when possible, is among the most responsible things you can do to set yourself up to tangibly love your neighbor in a time of crisis.
Origin stories tell us who we are as individuals, and who we are as a society. In other words, if you want to explain some of what you see in society today, you have to look at what we tell ourselves about where we came from.
By and large the predominant story we tell ourselves about where we came from today is the story of chance existence and progress through natural selection. We exist because enough time passed in our universe for the chance of the emergence of life on this planet to come to fruition. And we exist the way we exist today because nature has selected the strong over the weak.
Where does this story leave humanity?
If this is our prevailing origin story, what motivation would we have now for protecting the weak among us? In respecting the dignity of all humans, including the weak and vulnerable, we would actually be working againstthe very forces that have gotten us this far.
Our modern origin story is not one that places much value on all human life.
We are not alone in this.
In the past century or so we have discovered an ancient Babylonian origin story: the Enuma Elish. You can read this ancient myth here.
According to this ancient origin story, humans are not the product of chance and natural selection of the strong over the weak. No. Humans are vermin. We exist to spite and cause annoyance and to do the work of the gods so that they don’t have to. We are the least worthy of honor in all of creation.
This story, and other stories like it, were the origin story of the ancient world.
And then along came Israel.
In the ancient world every god had an image bearer. Some sort of physical representation of that god.
The Egyptian goddess of fertility was often represented by a pregnant frog. The Babylonian god Marduk was often represented by a dragon.
Israel was different.
Israel made a bold claim: if you want to know what God is like, you should look at a human person.
The God of Israel, like all other gods of the ancient world, also had image bearers. But they were not made of gold or iron. They were made of flesh and blood.
This is a wildly different portrayal of humanity than that of any ancient or modern myth. You are not a cosmic accident; you are not a pawn in the battle of the gods. You bear the image of God.
But a closer reading of Genesis reveals something even more fascinating.
It turns out, you can’t quite understand God by looking at just one human person. The image bearing of God was not complete until there existed multiple human persons.
According to ancient Israel, if you want to know what God was like, you had to look at human persons in relationship.
Adam did not reflect the image of God until Eve appeared. God said “Let us make mankind in our image, and let them have dominion…” And these two human persons were created in order to produce a third. “You shall be fruitful and multiply.”
You need multiple human persons to properly reflect God because God exists as One God in Three persons.
But it doesn’t stop there.
These first two human beings were not exactly carbon copies of one another, were they? They were different. In fact, they were biologically opposite.
If you want to know what God is like, you have to look at very different human persons in relationship.
This is the role of humanity within the created order: to reflect the nature of God through our relationships with one another. To serve as image bearers. Signaling to the world through our treatment of one another that a good, loving God exists.
And it is our differences in those relationship that most properly reflect God. Our differences are not something to be dealt with, or minimized, or used to our advantage. They are part of the reflection of the image of a God who cannot be represented by just one gender, or just one race.
I don’t need to tell you that we don’t live up to this high calling. That we allow differences to lead to mistreatment. That we allow distrust to tarnish our relationships. That we fail to love. That we fail to honor the dignity of ever human image bearer we encounter.
So what are we to do? What would Jesus tell us if we were to sneak out in the middle of the night, like Nicodemus, and ask him this question?
“Jesus, how do we restore the broken image?”
His answer would likely be the same answer he gave Nicodemus.
You must be born again. You must relearn how to be truly human.
Being born again—becoming more truly human—is a long journey. And it is one that begins at the cross.
When Nicodemus asks how to be born again, Jesus answers him:
As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.
If the remaking of humanity in the image of the New Adam happened through torture, shame, and crucifixion, we should not expect our own process of being born again to be without pain.
But on the other side of this process of rebirth is a life we were meant to live, a return to our truest origin story. Reflecting the image of the one God through our relationships with entirely different others.
There are countless layers to the challenges our society continues to face, and this is one of them: we have actually believed and embraced the modern origin story.
And we have done so to our collective detriment.
Change will at least have to involve a rejection of the modern story of who we are and what we are here for, and an embracing of a much older one. This is not an easy task; this origin story is so engrained in our culture that it is hard to even notice.
The affirmation that all human beings are the creation of a good and loving God rather than the result of chance, violence, and the selection of the strong over the weak has more healing power than many of us realize.
This local, quiet task is something that every teacher, parent, plumber, friend, and pastor can do, starting today.
Do you want to see a shadow of this at work? Check out The Repair Shop, a BBC show about … a repair shop … that seeks to be “an antidote to throwaway culture … shining a light on the wonderful treasures to be found in homes across the country.”
Watch a few episodes (you can find it on Netflix), and try not to be moved by old objects being restored through tender care because the shop owners believe that these objects and their owners have an inherent sense of dignity. And then imagine going about your own local, quiet work with other people in the same way.
Ira Glass, host of NPR’s This American Life, shares a family story about his Grandmother who became ill at the age of 32. She was hospitalized for months, and eventually doctors told her family that she was on the verge of death. A series of treatments were attempted, but nothing was working.
Her family decided, when all else failed, that they would try one more thing. They called for a Rabbi. When the Rabbi arrived, he performed a name-changing ceremony right there in the hospital room.
Curious about the whole situation, several family members asked why the Rabbi would do such a thing. It turns out that the Rabbi changed her name so that when the Angel of Death came, he wouldn’t know who she was. Ira’s grandmother changed her name in order to fool the Angel of Death.
And it worked. She survived, got well, changed her name back to what it was, and lived to the age of 87.
This family, by their own admission, is not particularly religious. Even for the religious among us, this story seems a little far-fetched. I don’t share it because I recommend it as a practice, I simply share it to highlight something important: most humans throughout most of history have placed a tremendous value on a person’s name. For a number of reasons this is not always the case today.
The God revealed throughout the Old Testament had a name, though it was not until His encounter with Moses that we learn what that name is. Adam, Eve, Noah, Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Rebekah, Jacob, and Rachel—just to name a few—all lived and died without hearing this name. It is not until Moses was bold enough to ask that God decides to finally reveal His name to His people.
But Moses said to God, “If I come to the Israelites and say to them, ‘The God of your ancestors has sent me to you,’ and they ask me, ‘What is his name?’ what shall I say to them?”
God’s answer?“Tell them that my name is I AM.”
The God revealed throughout the Old Testament has a name: YHWH, which means “I AM.”
But you would be hard-pressed to find a devout Jew—ancient or modern—who is willing to write or speak that name.
Why is this?
We teach our children to ask for people’s names, and to use them in conversation. When we are in a new setting we wear name tags that allow others to learn our name, and use it, even before they meet us. When we don’t know somebody’s name, but we think that we should, we feel bad enough to call them nicknames like “Buddy” or “Dude” or perhaps my personal favorite: “Hey man, how have you been?” It seems as though humans are wired to call others by their name.
Why then would God’s people often refuse to call God by His name? Ancient Hebrews did not write or speak the Divine Name of God out of a deep respect—perhaps even a holy fear—of God Himself. There are some things so sacred, they are not to be spoken or written by those who are profane.
Sacredness and profanity cannot occupy the same space.
We see this notion all throughout the Old Testament. Very few of God’s people were permitted to enter the inner-most portions of the Temple. Those who were permitted to enter did so under very strict regulations: they ate (or didn’t eat) the right things before entering, they dressed a certain way, and they only attempted to enter on the appointed days. God is sacred, humans are profane, and it takes Divine Intervention to allow the two of them to coexist.
Which—if you listen closely during this busy season—is the message of Christmas: in the Incarnation of Jesus, the sacred and the profane occupied the same space without one destroying the other.
This brings us to something that we are asked to ponder on this eighth day of Christmas: the naming of Jesus (Luke 2:21).
The Incarnate God was given a name—a fairly common one in fact—and was called that name throughout his lifetime by all sorts of people. Today that name may very well be one of the most recognizable names on the planet.
Let this sink in: the God whose name is so sacred it is hardly ever spoken took on a very ordinary name and has allowed anyone to speak that name, whether they are confessing their sin or stubbing their toe.
Why would God allow this? Why risk the sacred for the sake of the profane?
For an answer to these questions, we only need to look at the actual name given to Mary’s child on the occasion of his circumcision: “and they called him Jesus, which means Savior.”
The Son of God took the risk of becoming human and assumed the name Jesus in order to complete a mission of reconciling God and humanity. The sacred became profane, was given the name Jesus, and lived and died in order to make the profane sacred.
Or as Gregory of Nazianzus once put it: “He who is becomes. The Uncreated allows himself to be created. He whom nothing can contain is contained in the womb of a young virgin named Mary.”
The celebration of the Holy Name happens at a very helpful time each year. In the midst of celebrating the sacred-becoming-profane at Christmas, we are also celebrating a New Year, and all of the fresh starts and resolutions that come along with it.
Most of the next twelve months of our lives will be spent living in the ordinary. We will all face our own extraordinary moments—births, deaths, sickness, healing—but they will be few and far between compared to the ordinary moments we face each day. It is in the ordinary, everyday moments of our lives that we, by God’s grace, become the type of people who respond in holiness to the extraordinary moments we know we will face in the year ahead of us.
When we reflect on the naming of Jesus, we remember that the sacred has become profane in order to make the profane sacred. The sacred has become ordinary in order to make the ordinary sacred.
Names probably mean more than we realize. May this new year be one of growing into the new name given to each of us in our Baptism.
A few excerpts from a sermon by Quodvultdeus, 5th century Bishop of Carthage, on Holy Innocents day.
On what drove Herod to slaughter babies in Bethlehem:
Why are you afraid, Herod, when you hear of the birth of a King? He does not come to drive you out, but to conquer the devil. But because you do not understand this you are disturbed and in a rage, and to destroy one Chile whom you seek, you show your cruelty in the death of so many children. … You destroy those with tiny bodies because fear is destroying your heart.
On grace and martyrdom:
God has taken up the children of the enemy into the ranks of God’s adopted children. The children die for Christ, though they do not know it. The parents mourn for the death of martyrs. The children make of those as yet unable to speak fit witnesses to themselves. … How great a gift of grace is here! To what merits of their own do the children owe this kind of victory? They cannot speak, yet they bear witness to Christ. They cannot use their limbs to engage in battle, yet already they bear off the palm of victory.
Yesterday we celebrated the birth in time of our eternal King. Today we celebrate the triumphant suffering of his soldier.Yesterday our king, clothed in his robe of flesh, left his place in the virgin’s womb and graciously visited the world. Today his soldier leaves the tabernacle of his body and goes triumphantly to heaven.Our king, despite his exalted majesty, came in humility for our sake; yet he did not come empty-handed. He brought his soldiers a great gift that not only enriched them but also made them unconquerable in battle, for it was the gift of love, which was to bring men to share in his divinity. He gave of his bounty, yet without any loss to himself. In a marvellous way he changed into wealth the poverty of his faithful followers while remaining in full possession of his own inexhaustible riches.And so the love that brought Christ from heaven to earth raised Stephen from earth to heaven; shown first in the king, it later shone forth in his soldier. Love was Stephen’s weapon by which he gained every battle, and so won the crown signified by his name. His love of God kept him from yielding to the ferocious mob; his love for his neighbour made him pray for those who were stoning him. Love inspired him to reprove those who erred, to make them amend; love led him to pray for those who stoned him, to save them from punishment. Strengthened by the power of his love, he overcame the raging cruelty of Saul and won his persecutor on earth as his companion in heaven. In his holy and tireless love he longed to gain by prayer those whom he could not convert by admonition.Now at last, Paul rejoices with Stephen, with Stephen he delights in the glory of Christ, with Stephen he exults, with Stephen he reigns. Stephen went first, slain by the stones thrown by Paul, but Paul followed after, helped by the prayer of Stephen. This, surely, is the true life, my brothers, a life in which Paul feels no shame because of Stephen’s death, and Stephen delights in Paul’s companionship, for love fills them both with joy. It was Stephen’s love that prevailed over the cruelty of the mob, and it was Paul’s love that covered the multitude of his sins; it was love that won for both of them the kingdom of heaven.Love, indeed, is the source of all good things; it is an impregnable defense, and the way that leads to heaven. He who walks in love can neither go astray nor be afraid: love guides him, protects him, and brings him to his journey’s end.
Look at the parody of justice we find in John 18. Jesus, the one who created all things, standing before Pilate. The King of Kings being interrogated by a Roman regional governor.
“Are you the King of the Jews?” Pilate asks.
“My Kingdom is not like yours,” Jesus answers.
Hours later in time, and a chapter later in John’s gospel, as Jesus is being crucified, Pilate will order a sign to be placed above Jesus’ head. The sign reads “The King of the Jews” and it is written in Hebrew, Latin, and Greek.
Someone in the crowd challenges Pilate on this front. “Shouldn’t the sign say ‘this man said he was the King of the Jews?”
Pilate answers, “What I have written I have written.”
In the 19th chapter of John’s Gospel, we see Jesus bear the title “King of the Jews” as he is crucified.
But in the 19th chapter of John’s Apocalypse, we see a different vision of Jesus. The curtain is peeled back, and this time Jesus bears another title. Jesus returns to Jerusalem, not riding on a Donkey but on a Horse, and on his robe and on his thigh he has a name inscribed: King of Kings and Lord of Lords.
An excerpt from my Christ the King Sermon last week. Listen or watch here: Bring on the Apocalypse.
Every Spring I conduct an experiment with a group of students. I did this once with a group of teachers and, to many of the students’s surprise, the results were nearly identical.
I ask the students to respond to what I am about to say with a simple facial reaction. They are to smile if their response to my words is generally positive, and frown if their response to them is generally negative.
Then I ask them to give me a blank facial expression before I utter those words every student longs to hear: “Summer break.”
As you can imagine, the room was full of smiles.
Everyone in the room, whether teacher or student, has spent a good amount of their life following the school calendar. By following this calendar year and year, they have actually learned to love summer.
To an accountant, or an engineer, or a doctor, “summer” is simply the time of year that you go to work when it is hot outside. To those of us in the world of education—even for those of us who work through the summer—there is a sense of freedom, flexibility, and bliss when summer arrives.
The School Calendar has taught us what to love.
This is actually a big deal: calendars have the power to shape what we love. Whether we are paying attention to them or not, the various calendars we follow are shaping our desires. And most of the calendars we follow are teaching us to love things that aren’t always worthy of our love.
an excerpt from a forthcoming book on the Church Calendar
One of the greatest encouragements of All Saints’ day is that an unfathomable majority of the Saints are never named as such.
Different Christian Traditions have various official and unofficial ways of canonizing or otherwise recognizing the faithful departed whose lives of holiness have made a profound impact on the Body of Christ. Some of these Saints even have Feast Days on the Church Calendar to recognize their life and work. But a vast majority of the People of God throughout the ages who have lived quiet and holy lives are not recognized with a Feast Day.
This is part of the point of All Saints’ Day: to recognize the unrecognized Saints throughout history, in an attempt to encourage every Christian to be an unrecognized Saint.
This is a daunting vocation: become a saint. It should stir within each of us a sense of impossibility.
But perhaps the first—and final—step to living a holy life worthy of the title “Saint” is a recognition of how impossible that task truly is. It is also hard to imagine a Saint that does not spend serious time each day in prayer and the reading of Scripture. But I think there is another significant step to becoming a Saint, one that St. Paul teaches us in his epistle to the Corinthians: imitate people who imitate Christ.
Classical education, at its best, introduces students and their teachers to many such people. Some of these people are flesh-and-blood figures in history, and others are mere fiction. In his wisdom, God has allowed us to learn faithful endurance from both St. Monica of Hippo, the mother of St. Augustine, as well as Samwise Gamgee, the friend of Frodo.