Censoring Faith

There's a report on the BBC today about Wayne Rooney, the Manchester United striker who looks like a club bouncer but plays like most of us can only dream. Despite injury, Rooney scored 26 goals in the Premier League last season. He is the hammer upon which the England team has placed its hopes.

Recently a reporter noticed that Rooney was wearing beads during a training session - rosary beads. When he was asked about this he simply replied, "It's my religion." So, Rooney is a Catholic. It makes sense. He is from Liverpool, one of the areas settled most heavily by Irish immigrants during the Victorian era. Merseyside has more Catholics, in relation to population, than the rest of the UK. Rooney was obviously not particularly bothered by the question; his answer was almost a shrug - "I'm a Catholic. What of it?" But when the reporter made to ask a follow up question, a press officer for the Football Association stepped in. "We don't do religion," he said. And that was the end of the conversation.

How come? When did the FA gain the right to silence people? What is so awful about Wayne Rooney's religious choice that it must remain private? Given his notorious ill-temper, it's almost surprising that he didn't tell the official where he could put his censorship, but he did not. Perhaps it's time somebody did.

Looking at England from a distance, and not having lived there for almost seventeen years, it seems to me that religion (or, at least, Christianity) has become more marginalized over the years. It's not illegal to believe, but it is illegal (in some respects) to bring your faith into the public square. It is not possible to express opinions about the uniqueness of Christ, or the call to holiness of life, or the unacceptability of certain lifestyles, without incurring the wrath of the authorities. Tolerance has been elevated to the highest, some would say the only, virtue. Therefore, any statement that implies exclusivity or questions perceived standards is outlawed. Is this 1984?

Back to Wayne Rooney, the contrast with the US is shocking. US athletes sometimes talk too much about their faith. No one tries to silence them. But, earlier this year, it was deemed inappropriate for college football players to display Bible texts on the black lines they paint beneath their eyes. What is next? Will we soon be seeing a "don't ask - don't tell" policy for Christians?

Maybe it's time for the Wayne Rooneys of this world to refuse to be silenced.

Humility

There's a brief episode, described in Jerome Bettis' autobiography The Bus, that got me thinking. Bettis was playing football for Notre Dame. In the fall of 1991 he reported back for training camp, still not convinced that he could make a career out of football. He had spent the summer working at General Motors in his native Detroit, wearing a shirt and tie and helping out in the tech plant with research and performance tests. Then, in August, he returned to Notre Dame only to discover that his team captain had been moved to tailback, which meant that the fullback position belonged to Bettis. He looked forward to a break out year.

One day, during practice, Coach Holtz did something out of the ordinary. He called the players together from the three practice fields and told them to take a knee. He had something to say to them. "There's a guy on this football team, " he said, "he's going to get our a-- beat. He doesn't have a commitment. I can't trust him and, personally, I don't think his a-- cares. We're going to lose a national championship because of this guy. He doesn't want to win, thinks he's God's gift, thinks he's the next big thing."

By this time, like the other players, Bettis was looking around, wondering who this malingerer could be. Most coaches would have left it at that, leaving every player wondering if mhe could be the weak link and determined to do something about it. But Holtz was not like other coaches. He asked Bettis to stand and publicly castigated him for not being as committed to the cause as he could be. Bettis was devastated. Not only was the criticism unfair it was also deeply humiliating.

Lecture over, Coach Holtz dismissed the other players back to practice, then invited Bettis to join him for a ride on his golf cart. "Coach, why'd you do that?" asked the bewildered fullback. "I just want to get you going" came the inadequate reply.

I've heard sermons like that. I've heard leaders rip into Christians who are just trying to do their best. Usually there is no come-back, no opportunity to make a more measured analysis, no fairness and little grace. Too many Christians have been wounded because leaders are unable to distinguish between humility and humiliation. I wonder whether some of those leaders have not, secretly, revelled in their power. Dangling a poor sinner over the pit of hell may be one way to get a person's attention, but it probably won't win their love. Pointing out faults is, more often, the prerogative of the devil, not the responsibility of the Christian leader.

We do right to hold one another accountable. We do well to counter the culture of narcissism that mutes all criticism and praises the mediocre. We do the Lord's work when we encourage His people to be humble and self-effacing. But we can do untold damage when we rant against sin and do not love the sinner.

It took Jerome Bettis a long time to get over his humiliation. The dressing down did not really help to make him a better player, it merely undermined his self-confidence. For a kid from the dangerous streets of Detroit, already out of his depth intellectually, the coach's actions could have had the effect of sending him backwards instead of drawing him on. And we run the risk of damaging disciples when we fail to balance Law and Grace.

Scripture tells us to humble ourselves, not to humiliate others. And the promise linked to the command is important, too. "Humble yourselves in the sight of the Lord, and He shall lift you up." (James 4:10).

Full-Orbed Calvinism

I've been spending time reading some of the foundational sources of Calvinism (that, and bedding in a new laptop, which is why I've been quiet). The more I think about it, and as I read Hodges, Warfield and, of course, Calvin, the more I see that a mature faith must be prepared to accept opposites. At the very least, we must be able to acknowledge what appear to be logical opposites.

Part of me (probably the part that studied philosophy) wants everything to fit within a coherent system. I've always been careful to defend the Christian faith, certainly in its Reformed manifestation, as being logically consistent. Everything is internally connected. It's not folk religion with a multitude of disconnected, mutually exclusive superstitions. From the doctrine of Creation to the Fall to Salvation in Christ to the Consummation of all things, orthodox Christianity is fundamentally reasonable, in fact it's that very reasonableness that has appealed to so many people throughout the ages.

And yet: Calvin stresses God's sovereign choice as well as human responsibility. And that's not the only example of opposite beliefs. What about the doctrine of election, which stresses God's activity, and the covenant of grace, which stresses ours? Or what about the conflict between an idea like total depravity, which lies at the heart of the Calvinist sytem (certainly of the old acrostic T.U.L.I.P), and the elevation of humanity that demands so much of those who would be disciples of Christ? A peculiarly Reformed contrast can be seen in the twin ideals of separation from the world, and influence upon culture. Are we to escape from the world in order to avoid contamination, or are we to engage the world and claim the arts for Christ? Both emphases have had their place in our history. Finally, as Henry Meeter pointed out, are we to be understood as intellectuals or as mystics? There are elements of both in Calvinist churches. Which is it to be?

Instead of an 'either/or' answer, I think we need to answer, with Kierkegaard, 'both/and.' However, this not a postmodern fudge. Far from it. It is a simple acknowledgement that the mind of God is so much greater than ours.

It is possible for us to assert both divine sovereignty in terms of salvation, and human responsibility. God chooses us, but we also choose Him. The question of which one is prior need not worry us unduly. We do not need to make our theological system logically coherent, though we should certainly try. There are times when we simply have to say, "Well, here You are, Lord. Your Word teaches both, and I am unable to reconcile them, but I know that You can, so that's good enough for me."

In the end, it's our doctrine of revelation that enables us to hold competing beliefs in tension. At this time in history, God has chosen to reveal so much, and no more. But, if we trust Him, and take His revelation seriously, then we shall not pretend to know as much as God does. What we cannot afford to do, is to choose to emphasize one aspect of the faith at the expense of another. If we are to be mature disciples, or, as Calvin would say "full-orbed," then we must learn all that we can learn, we must use our minds to the best of our ability, but then we must accept that we are still fallen creatures and that we cannot understand everything. This is the point of faith - that we let God be who He claims to be. That is always enough.

Calvin and Hobbes...

Virtue and Virtu

As I understand it, virtues (arete in the Greek), are those behaviors that lead to right actions. The moral system supported by the Christian virtues is that which has been revealed by God. He has set the standard and made it known to us through the two books of revelation: nature and Scripture. Virtue, therefore, is commonly understood to be a characteristic or habit that is in accord with God's moral will for the universe.

Roman Catholic theology even identifies seven cardinal virtues, in contrast to the seven cardinal sins. They are understood to be the hinges of a Christian moral life. They are faith, hope, love, prudence, justice, temperance, and fortitude. Of these, three have been understood as being infused by God. That is, if we exhibit faith, hope, or love, it is because they have been given directly by God, not acquired by natural means. Be that as it may, it is obvious that the Christian is supposed to exhibit virtue and not its opposite, which is surely vice.

All this becomes less clear when one reads the works of Machiavelli. I've been re-reading The Prince, as maligned a piece of political commentary as was ever printed. Machiavelli's work, which is now the best part of 500 years old, has been described as the most cynical, self-serving justification for immoral behavior. It is not a direct attack upon Christian virtue. In fact Machiavelli appears to have been a sincere Christian, even though he was drawn to the resurgence of pre-Christian philosophy associated with the Renaissance. Furthermore, Machiavelli's aim is not personal morality but the body politic. He wants to understand how a leader needs to behave if he is to create and sustain a stable, peaceful society. To this end, he encourages Princes to exhibit what he calls virtu.

Virtu, taken from the Latin root vir, which means "man", describes the qualities required by a Prince or leader. In contrast to the Christian virtues, these qualities include a certain ruthlessness. A "good" (or, more properly "effective") leader does not not think of others before himself. He is not modest or self-effacing. He is bold. And he should convey this quality to the state or nation of which he is the head. An effective nation, one which promotes stability and banishes anarchy, deals violently and mercilessly with its opponents. It has no business entering into treaties or making agreements that may end up not being in its own best interest. And it should break treaties if this will serve its purposes best. There is no room for weakness in diplomacy. The strong win.
Classically, virtu had been understood very differently. Cicero, for example, wrote that " virtu consists especially of always acting honorably and morally, because honesty is the best policy." Machiavelli disagrees. He thinks it inconceivable that any ruler could actually be like that, in a world dominated by men who are not good, and survive for any length of time. In his opinion, an effective ruler will not be merciful. It's interesting that, for The Prince, Machiavelli used his experience of Cesare Borgia who was an unutterably cruel man, but also the ruler who finally brought peace and stability to the Romagna.

An effective leader, according to Machiavelli, will be willing to do what is morally wrong in order to achieve a political end. He will either use force (like a lion) or cunning (like a fox) in order to get his own way. And the truly great leader will know how to make his actions appear to be morally acceptable, in a Christian sense, while using all the tricks in the book in order to achieve his ends. These ends, however, must not be oppressive. They should lead to security and freedom within the bounds set by the state.

It's easy to see why Machiavelli was condemned so roundly by contemporary theologians, and why he has been so beloved by those who have advocated authoritarianism as a means to stability and peace. There are those who say exactly the same kind of thing today. On the one hand they complain that Christian moral concepts have no place in international politics, usually adding that religion is an essentially private business. But then they also claim that they are acting in the best interests of the people. Usually they layer their pronouncements with protestations about personal integrity and honesty. They are quick to deny that they are acting in self-interest. Are they simply being Machiavellian when they twist the truth to serve their own purposes? Should we expect modern Princes to exhibit the Christian virtues any more than Cesare Borgia did?

The problem is that virtu is fundamentally derivative. If everyone was dishonest then there would be no advantage in being economical with the truth. If it was expected that everyone would be totally self-interested and that they would ignore the needs of others, then the Borgias of this world would simply be those who held the most power. It would just be a matter of degree. But how would Cesare Borgia rule a country where everyone was dishonest? How would he establish the value of currency, or standardization in weight, for example? If everyone had his finger on the scale, then there would be no standards from which to deviate. The only thing left would be power, the ability to dominate another by violence, or the threat of it. Who would want to live in such a world?

So, when our politicians tell us that it is naive to expect Princes and nations to take note of the Christian virtues, we should not believe them. We should not mistake power or popular acclaim for legitimacy. A politician who delivers may be popular; he may exhibit Machiavellian virtu, but he will know nothing of virtue.

Even Christians can become unduly cynical when assessing politics and politicians. We are sometimes so frightened of anarchy that we look for human strength and influence in our leaders instead of moral integrity. But is it really possible that God will bless a nation which does not seek to live according to His will?

Joy and Foolishness

I came across these wise words from Frederick Buechner:

To worship God means to serve Him. There are two ways to do it. One way is to do things for Him that need to be done - run errands for Him, carry messages for Him, fight on His side, feed His lambs, and so on. The other way is to do things for Him that you need to do - sing songs for Him, create beautiful things for Him, give things up for Him, tell Him what is on your mind and in your heart, in general rejoice in Him and make a fool of yourself for Him the way lovers have always made fools of themselves for the one they love... Unless there is an element of joy and foolishness in the proceedings, the time would be better spent doing something useful.

Justice Inverted?

There's a very strange story today in the English press, from Blackburn, my old stomping ground. Apparently, a couple of sixteen year old youths, with nothing better to do, made their way into Blackburn Cathedral where they proceeded to deface hymnals and prayer books with anti-Semitic words and symbols, and to desecrate a cross. They did about $4,500 of damage. They were caught, which is hardly surprising given that they had written their real names in the visitor's book. Shortly thereafter the boys were taken before the local magistrate, a certain Mr. Austin Molloy JP, who berated them for their behavior. He sentenced one boy to an 18 month supervision order, and to pay the equivalent of $2,200 (at ten pounds or fourteen dollars per week). The other boy got a twelve month supervision order and a fine of $145. “This court is disgusted by the mindless destruction you have caused," the magistrate said. "Normal people would consider you absolute scum. If it was in our power, we would have you both stand in front of the congregation at 10am on Sunday and explain your words and actions to them to see if they could understand it, because we can’t.”

This is where it becomes interesting. The court recorder, Christine Dean, interrupted proceedings at this point to accuse the magistrate of inappropriate language. A complaint was made that Mr. Molloy had no business describing the young men as "scum" and that he ought to apologize. Now, an enquiry is being held into the magistrate's behavior. The case could go as far as the Lord Chancellor and the Lord Chief Justice. Mr. Molloy could be dismissed from the bench. It seems likely that, at the very least, he will be told to moderate his language or face disciplinary action. The odd thing is that a father of one of the youths has come out in support of the magistrate. The overwhelming response in the local press has been in favor of harsher penalties and in support of Molloy. But, still, he faces an enquiry.
How strange, that the judge should end up being judged! The original offense seems to have been forgotten in the rush to be politically correct. And the emperor has no clothes.
Now, while admitting that Mr. Molloy was less than judicious in his choice of words, he clearly should have the right to express the revulsion he feels at the behavior of the young men. Whether or not he should have done this from the bench is really beside the point. If the law, and its representatives, cannot denounce evil, who can? Maybe God? Perhaps we shall end up putting Him in the dock, too!


In this photograph, from the Lancashire Telegraph, the cathedral's head verger, Mark Pickering, looks at the statue of Jesus and John the Baptist that was damaged.

Shadows

We've been in San Antonio for a few days, following Nathan's graduation for Texas State. He is now, officially, as he says "All educamated." While we were there we decided to do something we have often talked about, but never done - we went for a ride on a boat on the riverwalk. Big mistake. I don't know how hot it was down there, but it felt like 100 degrees. Babies were crying, old ladies were wilting, and we turned a lovely shade of lobster. The contrast between the full force of the sun and the shade beneath the bridges was dramatic. It made me think of the Psalmist's prayer, "Hide me under the shadow of Your wings."

Shadows are sometimes described as fleeting and insubstantial. Human life, always uncertain and sometimes very brief, has often been likened to a shadow. Life is, according to the Talmud, "as the shadow of a bird's wing in its flight," and the Psalmist added, "my days are like a dying shadow." Shelley says that the despairing move "in the shadow of a starless night." Or, perhaps you know James Shirley's lines, that "the glories of our blood and state are shadows, not substantial things."

On the other hand, there's a lovely verse in the Song of Solomon, in which life is pictured as rich and thrilling because of the prevailing shadows: "My beloved is mine, and I am his; he feeds among the lilies. Until the day breaks, and the shadows fall away, turn, my beloved, and be like a roe or a young hart upon the mountains of Bether." In fact, there is beauty in the shadow, and the Bible writers, living in a land where the sun is scorching, often think of shadow as a place of rest. "I sat down under the shadow with great delight," says the Song of Solomon. Isaiah, describing the perfect friend (and therefore, God) says he is "as a hiding place from the wind and a covert from the tempest: as rivers of water in a dry place, as the shadow of a mighty rock in a weary land."

Unlike the Greeks, for whom the half-light was tinged with danger and regret, the Hebrews valued the opportunity to escape from the noonday sun. After all, even the darkness of the grave holds no terrors if God is there.

Beneath the cross of Jesus I fain would take my stand,

The shadow of a mighty rock within a weary land;

A home within the wilderness, a rest upon the way,

From the burning of the noontide heat, and the burden of the day.

O safe and happy shelter, O refuge tried and sweet,
O trysting place where Heaven’s love and Heaven’s justice meet!
As to the holy patriarch that wondrous dream was given,
So seems my Savior’s cross to me, a ladder up to heaven.

There lies beneath its shadow but on the further side
The darkness of an awful grave that gapes both deep and wide
And there between us stands the cross two arms outstretched to save
A watchman set to guard the way from that eternal grave.

Upon that cross of Jesus mine eye at times can see
The very dying form of One Who suffered there for me;
And from my stricken heart with tears two wonders I confess;
The wonders of redeeming love and my unworthiness.

I take, O cross, thy shadow for my abiding place;
I ask no other sunshine than the sunshine of His face;
Content to let the world go by to know no gain or loss,
My sinful self my only shame, my glory all the cross.
Elizabeth Clephane.

Everyman

I have just finished Philip Roth's Everyman, the story of a secular Jew who tries, and fails, to make sense of his existence.

Roth is a good writer. I appreciate his skills, even though I could live without some of his rather graphic descriptions. In this book he weaves a thoughtful tale around the life of a self-obsessed man who spends almost his entire life terrified by thoughts of his own mortality. The story begins at his graveside. The dead man's relatives share memories which slide seamlessly into the narrative. They represent different eras of the man's life: two estranged sons, a distraught daughter, an ex-wife, a still-faithful older brother. He is buried beside his parents in a semi-derelict Jewish cemetery. In the annihilation of the grave, he is 'everyman.' His fate is universal.

Lacking any kind of religious faith, despite the piety of his father, the man seeks meaning in his work in an ad agency. He is successful, but eventually retires, only to see his colleagues fall, one by one. He seeks meaning in family, but fails to control his passions, and so becomes only a serial husband and a part-time father. He seeks meaning in sexual conquest, indulging in behaviors that come close to being abusive. In the end, he is left ogling young women as they jog on the boardwalk near his New Jersey home, remembering the man he had been and no longer was. Tormented by ill-health, in later years, he resents the vigor of his older brother and distances himself from him. He is horrified by the loneliness, boredom and pain of old age. Finally, at a time when he doesn't really expect it, still making plans, he dies on the operating table.

Is he really 'Everyman'? I sincerely hope not. He may be a poster boy for the hopelessness of life without Christ. He may be a fitting illustration for a sermon about Ecclesiastes. He is not everyman. He does not possess the intellectual courage to question his prejudices. He never seriously challenges the easy atheism he adopted as a youth. He does not have the moral backbone to think through the consequences of his frequent, damaging lies. He is pure subjectivity, unable to prevent himself from harming those he loves, thinking, in the end, only of himself.

Towards the end of the story, he visits his parents' graves and seems to hear his mother's words of encouragement, "So, you lived, then." He also hears his father's advice, "Atone for what you have done and make the most of what time you have left." It is advice he chooses to ignore. Faced with the reality of his increasing frailty, the loss of passion, and the inevitability of death, and having no concept of judgment, he struggles to survive, if only for a little longer. "So long, Pops," says his still-angry, adult son, as he throws a clump of soil into the grave.

In the middle ages, an anonymous Roman Catholic writer wrote a mystery play known as The Summoning of Everyman. In it, God sends death to earth to seek Everyman, in order that he might give an account of himself. Despite it's pre-Reformation allegory, which makes it difficult for modern Christians, the play makes sense of death by placing it within the context of divine judgment. The Summoning of Everyman comes from an age when life was cheaper and considerably shorter than today. But it succeeds where Everyman fails, because it takes seriously not only our mortality, but also our homesickness for heaven.

On the Surface

I helped to deliver flowers to a wedding. The "Chapel" wasn't a real church, but it was made to resemble one. So, having a little time on my hands, I took a look around.

I discovered that the weathered stones were acually veneer stuck on breeze-blocks; the columns were just for show - they didn't reach to the roof so they didn't support anything; behind the scenes rebar protruded from unfinished cement work. In terms of decoration, the interior was a cross between bordello and Disney. Yard sale architecture, a collection of unrelated oddments, gave an illusion of antiquity. In the entrance, a fake icon showed fake Greek on an open book. An angel stood nearby, looking for all the world like a refugee from a cemetery.

A large room, with Mexican tiles on the floor, had a large, Italianate altar against the far wall "in the Eurpoean style" (according to the brochure). Candles were everywhere, on low walls, in sconces, and, wrapped in ivy, upon the altar. The coordinator was not satisfied with the effect. "There's something missing on the altar," she said. "How about a cross?" I suggested, and was met with a glower.

Still snooping I ascended stone steps that led nowhere. Half-way up, for effect, a stained glass window was set, rather crudely, into a wall and illuminated from behind. It had obviously once graced a church. Its subject was a palm branch emerging from a golden crown. Beneath the crown were the names of those in whose memory the window had been given.

At least the ceremony was Christian. Scripture was read. Prayers were said. God's blessing was invoked. But, the setting wasn't real. It was a metaphor for superficiality. It was all effect, all surface. Is this the future? What happened to community? Will postmodern spirituality require nothing more than a stage setting for the sacred?

Cabanga

I got a rather odd email today. It came from the Blackburn Rovers mailing list, to which I subscribe as a follower of the beautiful game and a fan of the team I have supported for the best part of fifty years. Usually, emails from the official Blackburn site give news of recent victories (would that that were always true) or details of players and their various injuries. It's all pretty predictable, harmless stuff.

Then, today, i got an email asking me to be a twelfth man for the England football team, which is preparing to do battle in the World Cup, in South Africa, in June. I'm familiar with the concept of the fan as the twelfth man. When the 100,000 rabid Aggies scream for the Texas A&M (American) football team at Kyle Field, their vociferous support encourages the players to knock that nasty team in burnt orange back to Austin, where they belong. It's all about making a lot of noise, especially when the opposing offense is on the field. In the same way, supporters can get behind their team in virtually any sport. After all, encouragement usually achieves more than the wagging finger of blame.

Back to the email: apparently, some bright spark in the English FA decided to ask suppporters to think positive thoughts about the team, on the theory that minds concentrated upon a single purpose are capable of making a difference. Here's part of the email:

We all want the boys to win in South Africa this summer, but most of us think we'll inevitably get knocked out at some point after the group stages. So if we really want to help them win (without strapping boots on ourselves) then we need to use the power of the 12th man.A Neuropsychologist has found that the power of the mind can actually influence results. Experiments show that this mental energy is strongest when unified under a single positive word. And if we all focus on this one word then doubt is less likely to creep in.That word is Cabanga (it means 'imagine' in Zulu if you're interested).We know with a greater number of believers, we can get more power and energy behind the word.With this in mind we're aiming to reach 90,000 fans (that's around the capacity of Wembley Stadium) on our facebook page, to help our boys win this summer.So show your support, be part of Cabanga and together we can help bring home the cup.

On the face of it, this is an extraordinary claim. By this theory, if 90,000 supporters think "goal" at the very moment that Wayne Rooney pulls back his leg to shoot, then they can influence the flight of the ball sufficiently to make it evade the despairing clutches of the opposition goalkeeper. The obvious question is, of course, what happens if 190,000 supporters of the opposing team are willing the ball to miss the goal? I'm not sure that this can be proven, either one way or the other. I still find it extraordinary that a thoroughly secular organisation, such as the FA, would countenance such a scheme.

My second thought is: What does this say about prayer? When the US and England teams meet in one of the opening games of the tournament, should I be praying that my team will win? (By the way, as an Englishman living in the US, that's a game I cannot lose). Will God listen to my prayers, and the prayers of those who are asking exactly the opposite, before deciding who will win? Or, should prayer be reserved for rather more important matters? I know that God is interested in the details of my life, but I don't think I can claim Him as partisan in sport. Unless, of course, He is a Blackburn supporter...

The Tender Indifference of the World

L'Etranger, Albert Camus' dark novel of self-discovery and despair, was simply a rather odd novel when I read it for the first time, thirty years ago. Today, re-reading it, I'm more able to discern Camus' underlying message, even if it still annoys me! Modernists often accuse Christians of intellectual arrogance, but they fail to recognize the grandiose certainties of Existentialism. Camus is relentless. He is determined to make his readers understand the fundamental absurdity of life. the vehicle for his anti-gospel is a self-absorbed youth by the name of Meursault.

As the story begins, we learn that Meursault's mother has just died. She had been living in an institution for the elderly. Meursault, her only living relative, had not paid her a great deal of attention. Indeed, her death and subsequent burial fail to move Meursault from his morose naval-gazing. It is as if the novel is taking place in his mind. One is never altogether sure of the existence of the sun-baked Algerian landscape in which Camus' characters live out their miserable lives. Meursault is unmoved by distractions like the death of his mother or a job offer in distant Paris. His refrain is, "Cela m'est egal" - "It's all the same.

Almost by accident, Meursault meets an old work-mate, Maria. His "grief" does not prevent him taking her to the beach, or to see a comic movie, or to bed. He also acquires a disreputable friend, Raymond, who leads Meursault into further adventures. Whilst planning a lazy afternoon at a beach-house, Raymond is confronted by three rather faceless Arabs. Violence lurks, then recedes, until Meursault decides to take matters into his own hands. After everything has calmed down, and the danger seems to have passed, Meursault takes Raymond's revolver and pursues the Arabs. When the sun glints off a knife held by one of the men, Meursault fires, repeatedly, and the man dies. Later, Meursault can only blame the sun for his actions.

Throughout the rest of the story, Camus grapples clumsily with the themes of oppression and state violence. Meursault refuses to accept the existence of a universal moral code. He is accused of being cold and indifferent to other people, but he refuses to conform. Proudly confident of the absurdity of this world, Meursault gives up his life with a shrug.

How sad! Meursault is a man entirely without hope, because his world revolves entirely around himself. There is no consolation to be found in the "tender indifference of the world" beyond a vague appreciation of beauty, and regret at not having longer to enjoy it. Meursault isn't even really narcissistic, he has just convinced himself of he inevitability of the meta-narrative of absurdity. It never seems to occur to him to ask, "If nothing makes sense, should that not also hold for my statement that nothing makes sense?" Like the post-modernity of which twentieth century Existentialism is but one symptom, Meursault's creed is self-contradictory. Camus attempts to use logic to prove the illogicality of the universe. He succeeds only in making his main character appear truly absurd.

L'Etranger has been an immensely influential novel. It is still required reading for many undergraduates. Are those who teach its story still entrenched in the intellectual revolution that was the 1960's? Do pony-tailed professors still dream of Left Bank cafes, and of a time when all of the old certainties were overthrown? If they do, I wonder whether their students can see through the posturing? Will it take a new generation to burst the bubble of Woodstock and the gospel according to Jean Paul? Or, must we look forward to another generation of outsiders, for whom the greatest good appears to be the necessity of revolt?

There is a person missing in Camus' story. Meursault needs a father to hold him accountable and to guide him to maturity. Adolescent angst is no basis for a philosophy for life. And if we are to recover a robust theology that moves beyond both self-adulation and self-loathing, then we must help the Prodigal Meursaults of this world to find a way back to their Father's arms.

Steeler Morality

So, Big Ben Roethlisberger is to serve a six game suspension for his loutish behavior in Georgia in May. Roger Goodell, the NFL commissioner, has come down on Ben like the proverbial ton of bricks, even though charges were never brought by the Georgian authorities. Apparently there was not enough to convict him of rape, even though it's pretty clear that he plied a young college student with drink then followed her into a bathroom. Perhaps he wanted to show her his etchings, or to discuss the niceties of social theory, or perhaps he was just being an arrogant jerk with too much money and no conscience.

I'm glad Ben got fined, even if it does mean that the Steelers are likely to have a less than stellar season this year. It's good that bad behavior has consequences. He could end up losing over $3million because of his little escapade. Presumably that is a drop in the bucket, but at least it should make him think again. Art Rooney and the Steelers organization are also to be commended for taking a hard line. No doubt there will be questions asked as to why they didn't trade Roethlisberger, given that they had just got rid of Santonio Holmes, but I imagine the answer is obvious. It has nothing to do with the color of his skin, but a great deal to do wih the strength of his arm. You don't build franchises around wide receivers, no matter how good. Ben has already brought two Super Bowls to Pittsburgh. He has the potential to bring even more revenue to his adopted city. But he will have to grow up. He does himself no credit with behavior that brings his team and his family into disrepute.

Having said all this, it does sound a little Victorian, doesn't it? The imposition of morality seems so out of place in our postmodern world. Especially since Ben was never officially charged, it makes Goodell look like a stern-faced headmaster, idly flicking the cane behind his back. It seems that Ben's punishment is due to the fact that he put somebody at risk. Would he have suffered if nobody had been in danger?

Recently, John Terry, the England Football player, was stripped of the captaincy of the national squad becuse he had an affair with the ex-girlfriend of a team mate. England's manager, the Italian Fabio Capello, won a great deal of respect in many quarters by taking decisive action. It's worth noting, though, that the action was not strictly speaking taken on moral grounds. Capello judged that Terry's behavior would have a detrimental effect upon team morale, should he be allowed to remain as captain. So, the fact that he betrayed a friend and broke a moral code is of secondary importance?

The problem is, of course, that everyone is afraid to talk about moral standards, except in as much as behavior endangers either health or success. Neither Goodell nor Capello dares to invoke a universal standard, such as the Ten Commandments. They are, nevertheless, making value judgments. It's worth asking "Upon what foundation are such judgments made?" Morality has to have a foundation, a rationale. You can't just keep condemning behavior on the basis of a moral code which society has ceased to embrace. Why should the exploitation of women be regarded as a societal evil? Is the prohibition something we have just decided upon, or is it the consequence of divine command?

Well done, Commissioner Goodell. I hope that you will apply the NFL's code of behavior with equaniminty. I hope, also, that one day someone will have the courage to condemn behaviors not because of any risk involved, but just because they are morally wrong.

A Resting Place for Sorrow

I've been re-reading Tess of the D"Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy, and have been much convicted by one particular episode. Hardy was no friend of the church; his works are known for their anti-Christian themes. But he hits a nerve in his representation of an encounter between young Tess and her parish priest.

Tess has been raped, and the child she subsequently bears marks her out as a fallen woman. She receives only condemnation from her father, and is ignored by the church which, previously, she had attended faithfully. Fearing, with good cause, for the life of her ailing son, Tess sends for the Vicar, but he is turned away by her father. In desperation she is forced to baptize her child herself (which, incidentally, is perfectly legal in Reformed circles, in extremis). This she does, mimicking the liturgy she had heard in worship. Hardy's treatment of the scene is touching and sympathetic. He does not really approve of the superstition, one feels, but he admires the simple devotion of a mother.

The child dies and Tess makes arrangements to meet the Vicar. She tells him what she has done, and asks for his approval. Eventually, he gives it, acknowledging no difference in the ordinance that she had given from any rite that he would have performed. Hardy is scathing in his depiction of a man who is trying to do his best. Noting Tess's dignity, and the tenderness of her voice, the cleric speaks to her out of nobler impulses "or rather, those that he had left in him after ten years of endeavour to graft technical belief on actual scepticism. The man and the ecclesiastic fought within him, and the victory fell to the man."

But then Tess moves on to another question. Will he allow the child to be buried in consecrated ground? The Parson begins to waver, concerned, presumably, that his parishoners will find out about the irregular baptism, and that word might get back to the Bishop. Though Tess presses him, he continues to make excuses. Finally, she exclaims "Don't for God's sake speak as saint to sinner, but as you yourself to me myself - poor me!" But he will not.

And so baby "Sorrow" is buried, clandestinely, in a corner of the churchyard reserved for the ungodly, at the cost of a shilling for the sexton. The Parson had struggled to reconcile ecclesiastical law, as he understood it, with the compassion he felt for a young girl and her dead child. But he chose to answer her as a saint might answer a sinner, and in this he failed.


There is a place for Law. We would be in a sorry state without it. But there is also a place for Love. Would that those of us who spend our days with our collars turned (figuratively, or not), might never forget.

Retreat to Victory

Mons: Retreat to Victory, by John Terraine, is an account of the retreat of the British Expeditionary Force (B.E.F.) and the French Armies following the invasion of Belgium in 1914. In sparse yet graphic language, Terraine chronicles attempts by the Germans to outflank the Allies, and to cut through all opposition in Northern France like a scythe. The bold endeavor almost succeeded. That it did not is due both to the timidity of German High Command, and to the bravery of the Allies. It was, however, a close run thing. Here are a couple of impressions from my reading.

First, wars are not won on paper. Von Schlieffen, the German commander at the turn of the century, laid the groundwork for the maneuver which could have destroyed France and its Allies within a few weeks. Pivoting on Alsace-Lorraine, the whole force of the German war machine could have swept all before it - if its forces had been deployed according to Von Schlieffen's plan. Instead, Von Moltke, Von Bulow and other leaders reinforced the line where it needed to bend, and weakened it where it needed superior strength. The plan failed because they failed.

The British and French also failed because of their inability to read the tide of battle. Intelligence reports were either ignored or forced to fit within some preconceived idea. Estimates of opposing strength were far too low, despite evidence of troop movements gathered by those who flew the new-fangled flying machines. The British, under Sir John French, seemed to have difficulty in adapting to changing circumstances. The French forces, under Joffre, were simply blind to danger. For forty years they had planned their revenge upon the Germans. They had dreamed of forcibly removing the teutonic oppressor from occupied lands in what had once been North East France. The spirit of Napoleon I was alive and well in the French army. Its generals vowed to attack at every opportunity and not to yield an inch of sacred earth. Too frequently, that earth became a grave as patriotic young Frenchmen still dressed in the red kepis and long blue capotes of the Second Empire, hurled themselves against forces they could not hope to break. The plans of grey-haired generals, far from the front-line, were far removed from the realities of conflict .

Second, in war, very few people have any idea what they are doing. Those who have at least some idea are at a huge advantage. The detailed accounts of the withdrawal of the B.E.F. demonstrate a remarkable degree of forethought, most often exercised by supply officers down the line, not by those caught up in the action. An army in retreat still needs to be fed. It requires ammunition and supplies. The wounded must still be evacuated. Lines of communication must be established and renewed whenever necessary. But when it comes down to it, especially when moving through a heavily-industrialized area, the movement of so many men is littered with misunderstandings and mistakes. If the retreat is not uniform, units can become isolated and enveloped, as happened to members of the Cheshire Regiment. Despite the skills of impressive and experienced commanders such as General Smith-Dorrien, whose reputation was largely made during the retreat from Mons, it must be admitted that the success of the operation was due, in no small measure, to the failure of the Germans to press home their advantage. Some German troops said later that they had expected the British to mount a counter-attack, so badly mauled had the Germans been in their attempts to advance. They did not realize their numerical superiority, nor the large gaps that sometimes appeared between Allied Corps. The history of war may be told on maps in bright colors, but it is written in fog, in shades of grey.

If there is something to be learned, apart from the folly of war, it is that persistence and imagination often have their reward. When, in the end, the German armies pushed too far and exposed their flank, it was those who had seen strategic retreat as a means to victory who were ready to pounce. The small-minded, vainglorious fools who had refused to listen understood how to lead men to their defeat, but not much more. It was those nearing retirement, Petain and Foch, who became the leaders of revitalized France. While the young could only impale themselves on steel, experience taught older heads to feint, to parry, and then to strike.

Life is not war, though it sometimes feels like it. But it seems that there is, after all, something to be said for the wisdom that comes from experience, as long as it is still open to innovation and risk. The other lesson, if you are looking for one, is that patience is often the best policy, as long as it does not become an excuse for indecision. Knowing when to strike and when to hold back can often be the difference between victory and defeat.

Easter Day, April 4, 2010

I Know That My Redeemer Lives

I know that my Redeemer lives, and that in the end He will stand upon the earth. And after my skin has been destroyed, yet in my flesh I will see God.
Job 19:25, 26

But Christ has indeed been raised from the dead, the firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep.
I Corinthians 15:20

In the most unexpected of places, God cultivates hope. Surely, we would never have looked for the promise of new life in the chronicle of Job. He lost everything – his fortune and his home, his family and his health. All that Job had left was an assortment of odd friends who offered him bad advice. There was no word of hope for this, most afflicted of prophets. He would have been better off dying, at least then his misery would have ended. And yet, hidden within its sorrowful pages, the book of Job brings light to the darkness. “I know,” he seems to sing, defiantly, “that my Redeemer lives, and that in the end He will stand upon the earth.” Though he did not fully understand his prophetic words, Job looked forward to an empty tomb, and to the resurrection of the Son of God.

On the third day,[1] the first day of the week, women came to the tomb to anoint Jesus’ body, a task they could not have performed on the Jewish Sabbath. But, when they arrived, they found that the stone that had sealed the tomb had been rolled away. Angels, in white, greeted them, but the women scarcely knew what to believe. Later,[2] Peter and John came running to see what had happened. John ran on ahead, and then hesitated. Peter ran past him into the open tomb and found the graveclothes, folded but empty. Hope lifted up its head.

Mary Magdalene,[3] still in shock, wept at the loss of her Lord. Once again, angels comforted her; but it was only when she turned to speak to a man she took to be a gardener that the reality of what had happened came to her. “Mary,” He said. And Mary realized that this was no gardener, it was the Lord. By His rising, hope – once hidden- flooded her world with light. Sorrow was banished. Death was overcome by joy unspeakable.

Every claim Christ ever made was proven on that day. Every command He ever issued was underlined. Every promise was written bold. For Christ was risen, the firstfruits of those who have fallen into the sleep of death. Today, we repeat the refrain with joy: Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Risen Lord,
I greet You with joy,
for You have overcome the power of death and drawn its sting.
Death’s shackles could not hold You. You’re alive!
And so, I live in hope: after my flesh has been destroyed I shall see You.
With my own eyes I shall see You.
Alleluia and Amen.

[1] Matthew 28:1
[2] John 20:3f
[3] John 20:10

Saturday, April 3, 2010

Laughed to Scorn

All who see me mock me; they hurl insults, shaking their heads.
Psalm 22:7

On the cross, Jesus quoted from Psalm 22:1, “My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?” Some of those who heard His words must have thought that Jesus was falling into dark despair. God was not coming to rescue Him. A squadron of angels was not about to blast His oppressors into oblivion, nor transport Him to glory. Jesus’ end was agonizingly human. He died in excruciating pain, as victims of man’s inhumanity have often died, throughout the centuries. Doubtless some were happy to see Jesus in this state – pathetic, worthy only of our pity.

Others, seeing Jesus, felt no pity, only scorn. Verse seven of Psalm 22 means, literally, “they shoot out the lip,” that is, they sneer at the passing of the Holy One. Certainly, there were those who were relieved to see Him die. Jesus had posed a threat to the religious establishment. With His death, things could get back to normal. Jesus had believed Himself to be someone special, but His death proved otherwise, or so they thought.

In the cool darkness of the tomb Jesus slept the sleep of death. But it was not a sleep from which He would never awake. While the devil and his cohorts laughed at Christ’s passing, the seed of life was getting ready to burst forth. Deep, within the earth, new life was rising. It was to be the rebirth of hope.

There are those who still heap ridicule upon Christ today. They say that His acquiescence to the will of God makes Him less than a man. They rail against “the pale Galilean” as the one who drains the color out of life. They mock Him as a dreamer who accomplished nothing. In their eyes, Jesus is still dead. His bones lie hidden in a Palestinian ossuary, which is exactly where His ideas should be left – dead and buried, consigned to the scrapheap of history. The laughter of these God-haters still rolls around the world, and the joke is always at the expense of the Man of Sorrows.

But, He who laughs last laughs loudest. Death crows its victory; but life lies in waiting, ready for the coming of the dawn.

Silent God,
The foolish ignore You.
The malicious abuse You.
Have I been among their number?
Have I been too busy to watch and pray?
Have I taken a seat among the mockers?
Forgive me, Lord.
I, too, will be silent.
And I will wait.
Amen.

Friday, April 2, 2010

Laid On Him

We all, like sheep, have gone astray, each of us has turned to his own way; and the Lord has laid on him the iniquity of us all.
Isaiah 53:6

This is the darkest of days. It is God’s Friday – Good Friday. There is not much good about it, or so it would seem. Certainly there was little goodness to be found in the events of this terrible day. If we can find good in Good Friday, then it is in the consequences of the day, for on that day the Lord laid on Him the iniquity of us all.

A trial was held overnight, illegally. False witnesses were brought.[1]It was alleged that Jesus had said that He could rebuild the temple in three days. Everyone knew this to be humanly speaking impossible, but few suspected that Jesus was referring to the temple of His body. The High Priest soon got to the point. “Tell us,” he asked, “if you are the Christ, the Son of God.” they already knew the answer, and the charge was prepared. “Blasphemy” they bellowed on hearing Jesus’ answer, not stopping to wonder whether what He said was true.[2] In that moment the sentence was sealed.

The disciples were thrown into disarray. Peter stayed close but, in order to protect himself, when he was challenged he denied knowing Jesus of Nazareth. Judas realized, too late, what he had done and, in his remorse, took his own life. Pilate interfered, not understanding why this harmless preacher should be thought worthy of crucifixion, but he soon bowed before the pressure of the crowd. An escape route was offered, and then swiftly closed as the crowd shouted for a notorious felon, Barabbas, and thus condemned Jesus to death.[3] Were there those, in their midst, crying, “Crucify Him!” who just days before had laid palm leaves in tribute at His feet?

The soldiers took Jesus and placed a scarlet robe upon Him, and twisted a crown of thorns and placed it upon His head.[4] They spat upon Him and struck Him, then stripped the robe from Him and led Him away to die. A stranger carried His cross to Golgotha, the place of the skull; nails tore His flesh; they crucified Him. A sign above His head mocked Him: “This is Jesus, King of the Jews.”[5] One of the thieves, crucified beside Him, also taunted Him, but another defended Him. One man, watching, offered Him wine vinegar soaked in a sponge. Others simply watched. It did not take long. Jesus cried aloud. He quoted Scripture. Then, He cried again, gave up His spirit, and it was done.[6]

Words fail me, Lord.
I cannot look upon Your cross and do anything but weep –
for the cruelty that put You there,
for the love that kept You there.
I shall weep for You in silence,
until the morning comes.
Amen.

[1] Matthew 26:57f
[2] Matthew 26:65-66
[3] Matthew 27:15-22
[4] Matthew 27:27f
[5] Matthew 27:37
[6] Matthew 27:50

April 1, 2010

By His Stripes

…and by his wounds (stripes) we are healed.
Isaiah 53:5b

In an upper room, Jesus gathered His disciples together to celebrate the Passover. Together, they would recall God’s great deliverance and look forward to the day when His people would, once more, be free. But Jesus also knew that His time was rapidly running out, and that He did not have long before He, too, would be offered as a sacrifice for sin.

In their haste, they had forgotten the formalities. No one had arranged for a servant to wash their feet.[1] No one stepped forward to perform the task. So, Jesus did it. To Peter’s horror, Jesus took a bowl and a towel and washed His disciples’ feet, and then He charged them, that they should do the same. One disciple, Judas Iscariot, saw this solemn act of service and decided that he had had enough. Judas was not interested in Jesus’ spiritual kingdom. He longed for the restoration of Israel. It was a political uprising he wanted, not a religious revival. So, Judas slipped away quietly and took his thirty pieces of silver.[2] It’s not a lot of money to betray a Savior. Jesus continued into the night, sharing with His disciples the core truths and values that He had tried to instill in them throughout His ministry. Some still did not understand. It was only after the event, looking back, that they grasped His meaning. Peter would, later, put it in graphic terms. The disciple who betrayed His Lord three times before the cock crowed, looked back upon the events of that first Holy Week and wrote: “He Himself bore our sins in His body on the tree, so that we might die to sins and live for righteousness.”[3] Then, using a phrase taken directly from Isaiah’s suffering servant songs, Peter concluded, “and by His wounds you have been healed.”

Back in Jerusalem, the meal was concluded. The broken bread would remind Christ’s followers of His broken body; the poured out wine would remind them of His blood.[4] Then, in Gethsemane, Jesus prayed, and Judas identified Him with a kiss, and the hinge of history creaked open.

Lord Jesus,
Had I been there, would I have understood?
It seems so obvious now, so necessary yet so tragic. But then?
Would I have hidden from the truth? Would I have denied you, like Peter?
Would I have sold You out, like Judas?
Would I have watched and prayed, like Mary at the foot of Your cross?
Amen.

[1] John 13:1-17
[2] John 13:30
[3] I Peter 2:24
[4] Matthew 26:26-29

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

He Has Borne Our Griefs

Surely he took up our infirmities and carried our sorrows, yet we considered him stricken by God, smitten by Him, and afflicted. But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him
Isaiah 53:4,5a

Those who watched Jesus die thought that God was punishing Him for His sins. In a sense, He was, since Jesus “took up our infirmities and carried our sorrows.” But in reality He suffered for our transgressions; our sins were laid upon Him. The nails and the spear that pierced Him, and the thorns that dug into His brow were not punishment for His sins, for He had none.[1] The sins were ours, and so was the punishment. It was our iniquity that crushed His heaving chest. It was the weight of our offenses that oppressed Him. As we see Him suffering, it is hard to think that we put Christ there.[2] The peace which we now enjoy, the spiritual peace which is the result of our reconciliation with God, is ours only because of the punishment that He endured.

This is not always easy for us to grasp. We sometimes think that God, being God, has only to wave a hand and we are forgiven. We fail to understand why an innocent man had to suffer on behalf of the guilty. Even if we acknowledge our guilt and admit that we have broken God’s Law, we are still not sure why an almighty, sovereign God had to stoop to such barbarity in order to obtain our salvation. It makes us think of God as an unnecessarily stern task master, demanding His pound of flesh. The truth is that, in Scripture, there is often a connection between atonement and blood. Abraham knew it as he raised the knife above Isaac.[3] He had to be willing to give up what was most precious to him. Then, a ram was caught in a thicket, and the blood-sacrifice was made. The Israelites knew about the connection between sin and blood. Throughout their long history they knew the value of an offering. Atonement came through the shedding of blood.

Why? Perhaps the best answer is to remember the holiness and justice of God.[4] Sin is so serious, its separation so total, that it threatens the fabric of the universe. Holiness cannot wink at sin and, in a just universe, wrongdoing cannot go unpunished. So, a system of sacrifice developed that was intended to mend the relationship between sinful Israel and their holy God. In the end, it did not work. Our rebellion was so complete that the blood of a thousand lambs could not redeem us.[5] That is why God sent the perfect sacrifice. He sent His Son.

Holy, holy, holy God, You are pure and holy, and I am not.
The light of Your presence sears my sin
and convicts me of my unrighteousness.
I trust in Your mercy alone, and in the sacrifice of Your Son.
To whom be praise forever.
Amen.

[1] Hebrews 7:26
[2] II Corinthians 5:21
[3] Genesis 22:9
[4] Galatians 1:3
[5] Hebrews 4:15

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

He was Despised

He was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering. Like one from whom men hide their faces he was despised, and we esteemed him not.
Isaiah 53:3

One might have thought that the coming of the Lamb of God would lead to rejoicing. It did. Angels sang at His birth.[1] The heavens rejoiced at the coming of the Son of Man. When old Simeon saw the child he took Him in his arms and praised God.[2] Anna, the prophetess, gave thanks to God when she saw the infant Jesus and “spoke about the child to all who were looking forward to the redemption of Jerusalem.”[3] But, there were others who were threatened by His coming. Instead of bowing down in worship before Him, they laid back their heads to laugh at Him. He was not among the cultured elite. He had not been born into privilege or power. There were questions regarding His birth. His father was only a carpenter. And He came from Nazareth. Everyone knew that nothing good came out of Nazareth.[4]

So they mocked Him. The soldiers laughed at Jesus as they dressed Him in a scarlet robe and placed a staff of office in His hand.[5] They called Him “King of the Jews” and bullied Him like spoiled children in a sand pit. As they had their fun, heaven glowered, but did nothing but wait. Even on the cross, a fellow-sufferer sought to relieve his own pain by taunting Jesus.[6] Passers-by shouted at Him, “So! You who would destroy the temple and build it in three days, come down from the cross and save yourself.”[7] Even the chief priests and the teachers of the Law couldn’t contain their mirth. “He saved others,” they said, “but He can’t save Himself! Let this Christ, this King of Israel, come down now from the cross, that we may see and believe.”[8]

When He came, Christ, the Lamb of God, was despised and rejected. He was despised and rejected by those who were ignorant of His purpose, and of God’s claim upon their lives. He was despised and rejected by those who were threatened by the enormity of His love, and by the implications of His coming. He was despised and rejected by those who believed that they had no need of a savior. How easy it would have been for Jesus to have responded to their scorn with anger of His own, to have thrown up His hands in frustration and to have said, “Enough! You will get what you deserve!” But, He did not. Instead, He lifted high His hands upon the cross and took what He did not deserve, for us.

Suffering Lord,
A superficial, cynical world mocks You still.
Your passion is still a source of schoolyard humor and crass contempt.
The godless mock You.
They despise Your salvation.
And by their laughter they crucify You again.
My heart grieves for You, and for Your suffering.
Amen.

[1] Luke 2:14
[2] Luke 2:29
[3] Luke 2:38
[4] John 1:46
[5] Matthew 27:27
[6] Luke 23:39
[7] Mark 15:29
[8] Mark 15:31