more from funerals

In my last post I chronicled the message of the preacher and some of the cultural dynamics at play in a funeral I attended recently.  Yet there are more insights I could share from such an experience.

1.  The event was actually a double-funeral.  The old man from the Bible School was buried alongside his twenty-something grandson. The deaths were said to be interrelated. The stress of hearing that his grandson had been stabbed to death by some of his gangster mates was too much for the old man.  Consequently, the other major dynamic at play in the preacher's message was the predicament of youth in modern South African culture.  This was not the first funeral we have attended for a young man who met a violent end; to my memory we have attended three other such funerals and have known of several other like incidents.  Youth violence among peers thus was the context for the preacher's admonition by way of the text not to look for Jesus "among one's relatives and friends".  "Friends may give you drugs," he said, referring to the known habit of the grandson to smoke dagga (marijuana) with his friends.

2.  The event also included a "tombstone unveiling" for a previously deceased member of the family.  Typically tombstone unveilings among the Xhosa are events separate from the burial of the dead, occurring perhaps a year or more later.  The tombstone unveiling on this day was quite literally an aside, performed in one corner of the large field where the funeral-goers were gathered for the burial, out of sight and earshot for many.  Still, I was able to get some explanation for the procedure.  The biblical justification for the tombstone unveiling was taken from Joshua 24:26-27, in which Joshua sets up a "large stone" as a witness against Israel should they forsake their pledge to "put away the gods that their ancestors served" and "serve the Lord" (24:14ff.).  Previously, I have seen church leaders base the practice on Genesis 35:20, in which Jacob "sets up a pillar" at the grave of his beloved Rachel, or 2 Samuel 18:18, in which Absalom sets up a pillar of remembrance prior to his own death because he had no son to do it for him.  What each of these texts has in common, it seems, is reference to a stone--and that in itself seemingly is enough to justify the practice of unveiling a stone for the dead in the name of being "biblical".

In my own cultural context for funerals, I don't ever recall the setting up of tombstones as something requiring special rationale; I suppose it is taken very much by the religious communities in which I grew up to be a stone of remembrance for the dead.  In the Xhosa context, however, it is clear that church leaders--if they have concerns that the event might be misconstrued by those attending--do feel pressure to explain the practice.  Thus, in this case, the attending bishop explained that "this is not a sin, we are not worshiping.  This is just a stone for remembrance."  He then proceeded by way of Joshua to locate the practice in the Bible, and also added the scriptural reference to Jesus Christ as the true "cornerstone."  I assume that the leader meant to guard against conceiving of the tombstone as a place where power could be conferred upon the dead person's living relatives, such as in the case of another pastor who once told the grandchildren at an unveiling for their grandfather that "now you have a place to come back to.  You can kneel here and be healed."  And so, while I still puzzle over how the stone of Israel's covenant with Yahweh is directly analogous to a stone of remembrance for a family's deceased, some rationale in the direction of memorial over magic is likely better than none.

3.  Xhosa funerals always include elaborate narratives from the person who most nearly attended or "nursed" the deceased in his or her last days or hours.  One of our students divulged to me that these narratives sometimes lend themselves to insinuating blame on others for the death of the person.  It has oft been noted that death in African traditional religion is not due to "natural causes"; there is a human agent of ill-will behind the death of a person.  Thus what in former times may have more commonly been ascribed to a witch (usually an old woman) plotting evil somewhere in the shadows (not that the days of fear of witchcraft have passed) has become in the present the fault of "some old woman who doesn't know how to drive" (my student's example), if the cause of death, for example, had been a car accident. The tendency to assign blame can easily drift into the call for vengeance (we found ourselves in the midst of such a situation at a funeral last year).  No such call was issued at this funeral, and the nearest blame for the death of the grandson was assigned to the grandson himself for not "listening to his parents"--a common complaint in the conflict between generations which deserves its own post.

Funerals are a treasure trove of cultural knowledge.  I am grateful to those African companions who enable me to reach some level of understanding.

-Joe

the grace of sheer silence

During this period of relating to the North American church while away from South Africa, I’ve attended two sessions of a men’s Bible study in which we read the texts from the lectionary. Last week we read 1 Kings 19:9-18, the story of Elijah’s encounter with God at a cave. The study group discussed a number of themes elicited by the story, one of which—the problem of violence and the will of God—I will comment on below.

The violence surrounding the text, of course, is Elijah’s slaughtering of the prophets of Baal after they have been defeated in the great contest on Mt. Carmel (1 Kgs 18:40). It seems to be Elijah’s violence, in fact, which has led him to the cave. As the story goes, setting the context for Elijah’s wanderings after his triumph on Mt. Carmel, “Ahab told Jezebel all that Elijah had done, and how he had killed all the prophets with the sword (1 Kgs 19:1). To this report from Ahab, her husband, Jezebel responds by swearing that she will make Elijah’s life “like the life of one of them by this time tomorrow” (1 Kgs 19:2). In other words, because Elijah acted to kill the prophets of Baal—after Yahweh had already defeated them by fire on Mt. Carmel—Jezebel now vows to kill Elijah as he killed others. Perhaps Jezebel would have acted to destroy Elijah on the basis of the results of the contest alone, on the basis of her wounded pride that her gods were not as powerful as Elijah’s God. Even so, the text seems to emphasize that it was the violence following Yahweh’s victory—Elijah’s decision to take up the sword against the false prophets—which further incited Jezebel, Elijah’s enemy, against him. That explains, therefore, why the text seems to separate the simple results of the contest in the preceding narrative (1 Kgs 18)—“all that Elijah had done” (19:1)—from Elijah’s activity following the victory of Yahweh—“and how he had killed all the prophets with the sword” (19:1). It also explains why Jezebel justifies her intent to kill Elijah on the basis of the fate of the prophets of Baal at the hands of Elijah. Elijah’s act of violence, not the victory of his God over false gods, is that which has put him to flight—and led him now to the mouth of the cave.

Against that background, one does not read Elijah’s case before God in the ensuing story as a righteous plea but as a plea of self-righteousness. For when Yahweh summons him at the cave—“What are you doing here Elijah?” (1 Kgs 19:9)—Elijah lists not the violence he’s committed but the violence committed against him and his people: “for the Israelites have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword. I alone am left, and they are seeking my life, to take it away” (1 Kgs 19:10). It is also to such a response that God responds in turn with, as on Mt. Carmel, a demonstration of God’s power—though not as Elijah expects. Having just received, on Carmel, wind which brought a drought-breaking rain (18:44-45), “a great wind” passes before Elijah in the cave—“but the LORD was not in the wind” (19:11). Having just received, on Carmel, fire from heaven, fire passes before Elijah in the cave—“but the LORD was not in the fire” (19:12). Rather, it is only after a “sound of sheer silence” that the voice of God speaks (19:12ff.).

Elijah might have learned, first from Carmel’s fire, then from Carmel’s wind and rain, that God’s grace was sufficient for him. Through no effort of his own, the fire fell from heaven to put his enemies to flight, the wind and rain to water a dying land. In the narrative, however, Elijah uses grace as a cause for sinning; he capitalizes on the defeat of Baal to slaughter his prophets “with the sword” (19:1). Elijah turns a victory of the Spirit into a battle against flesh and blood (see Eph 6:12). Fleeing from grace, Elijah finds himself within the wrath of retribution—the vow of a wicked queen to kill him as he himself killed.

But God is persistent. Where sin increased, grace abounded all the more (Rom 5:20); though Elijah might have known the character of God in fire and rain, God visits him again in the “sound of sheer silence”. If Elijah does not yet understand, God continues to reveal Godself to Elijah, waiting for the day when he—when we—might understand.

The “sound of sheer silence” also did not awaken Elijah to the fullness of the presence of God. Following the sound, Elijah repeats his prior speech and, within the permissive will of God, is commanded to anoint others for further acts of violence (19:14-17). Because Elijah, like Moses before him, could not break the cycle of retribution, he was not declared—by the voice that came after him on another mount—to be “my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased” (Mt 17:5). That was reserved for “Jesus alone” (Mt 17:8), the Word who spoke to Elijah in “sheer silence” and speaks to us through Elijah’s story.

-Joe

“Let his blood be on us”: Violence and the Passion of Christ

Though it was Palm Sunday, I went to church yesterday prepared to preach on the passion. This was so because it has been my observation over time that our small, Pentecostal church does not necessarily utilize the passion-Easter narrative on Easter, let alone any other stories specific to the times of the church year. And, because we would not be with them for Easter, I wanted to ensure that the people would hear something from the passion this Holy Week.

It happened that my re-reading of Matthew’s account of Jesus’ last week coincided with a grisly murder last week in the Mandela Park community in which our congregation is located. Just before the sermon, our pastor brought the event up for prayer, as “the church in the community is compelled to pray for the community.” This, then, is what happened: the widow of a pastor had been murdered by disgruntled congregants. The church of the deceased had been in his home, and the widow no longer wanted the church around in the same place where she lived and raised her children. According to our pastor, the widow also disagreed with the orientation of the church, whose pastor practiced healing through “holy water” rather than “through Jesus.” All that aside, the murder had taken place in front of the children, now orphans. “Imagine how traumatized they must be”, our pastor said.

Matthew’s narrative, it turns out, also includes a reference to children within a story of violence. In calling for the death of Jesus, “the crowd” before Pilate says, “His blood be on us and on our children” (Mt 27:25). The verse ranks among the most controversial in the New Testament; within the history of Christian biblical interpretation, it has served as a justification for the total depravity of the Jewish people and a legitimation of violence against them. Regardless of how Christians have interpreted it, in Matthew’s story it seems to be simply the final flank in a united effort to eliminate Jesus. That is, rather than a simple condemnation of Jews, Matthew’s report serves to demonstrate that the “crowd” simply completed what both its “chief priests and elders” and the Gentile rulers (Pilate himself) had already begun—the condemnation of Jesus, “the King of the Jews” (Mt 27:11, 37). Matthew’s point, I dare to say, is not the condemnation of one people for the condemnation of Jesus, but that the whole of the human society to which he came found Jesus threatening to its way of life. The story, to pick up Girardian language, exposes the violence of human society more than the violence of a particular people (see Rene Girard, The Scapegoat (Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 1986.))

That “the crowd” should be seen as no more or less guilty for the death of Jesus than either its Jewish leaders or the Gentile rulers of first-century Palestine is justifiable from the evidence of the text. For example, it is sometimes assumed that Matthew is sympathetic to Pilate, that Pilate was forced against his will by the crowd to condemn Jesus. In Matthew’s narrative, however, Pilate is explicitly compared to “the chief priests and elders”—the Jewish leaders—in his role in the death of Jesus. For earlier, after “Judas the betrayer” has “repented” by bringing back “the thirty pieces of silver” which he took for handing Jesus over, the “chief priests and elders” say to him, “What is that to us? See to it yourself” (Mt 27:4). The same phrase, curiously, is used of Pilate as he prods the crowd to explain its choice to condemn Jesus instead of Barabbas. Pilate, that is, says, “I am innocent of this man’s blood; see to it yourselves” (Mt 27:24). “See to it yourself(-selves)” unites Pilate and the chief priests and elders in a most devious injustice: transferring responsibility or guilt for the death of, in the admittance of Pilate’s own wife, an “innocent” man, Jesus, even as they themselves send him to his death. Indeed, though they both absolve themselves of responsibility, first “the chief priests and elders of the people conferred together against Jesus in order to bring about his death” and “bound him, led him away, and handed him over to Pilate the governor”, then Pilate, “after flogging Jesus . . . handed him over to be crucified” (Mt 27:1-2, 26).

Moreover, continuing a prominent theme in his gospel as a whole, Matthew records both the chief priests and elders and Pilate engaging in religious rituals/formalism as a replacement for the simple doing of justice, as though each could maintain each’s righteousness before the divine by fulfilling religious law. The irony is indeed bitter: the chief priests and elders are concerned only that “it is not lawful” that the “blood money” that Judas has returned not go “into the treasury” of the temple—not that they have transgressed the righteousness of God by putting to death the righteous/lawful one; Pilate brings out a basin of water before the crowd in order to “wash his hands” of “this man’s blood” even as he spills it (Mt 27:6, 24). 

If therefore, on the evidence of the narrative, we should see Pilate and the chief priest and elders as one in violence, so too might we see as one those others with whom they conspire against Jesus. In other words, it was “Judas” whom “the chief priests and elders” chided with “see to it yourself”, and “the crowd” whom Pilate goaded with the same. Consequently, Judas, consistently referred to as “one of the twelve”, one of Jesus’ inner circle/closest friends, is one with the generic “crowd” in the violence against Jesus—no more nor less responsible/guilty for the death of an innocent man (Mt 26:14, 47; cf. 26:20-25).

What this all adds up to, therefore, is a society, often divided against itself, strangely united in its quest to eliminate Jesus. In spite of their differences, real or perceived, that which makes all people the same—and guilty before God—is their violence, their hostility and their rebellion from the way of God. Unity in violence destroys, but the One who was destroyed—but raised beyond the violence committed against him—brings unity “in the bond of peace” to the divided ones through the blood of his forgiveness of their sins (Eph 4:3). Thus, at the Last Supper, in the very setting of betrayal, of handing over to a violent death, Jesus proclaims that the cup is “my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins” (Mt 26: 28). The blood which all people thought they were taking from Jesus so as to bring about his death was the blood that he was giving in love for their lives.

It is in that same context, also, that we should read the crowd’s response, “Let his blood be on us, and on our children” (Mt 27:25). Though the crowd meant one thing by the statement, reality was quite another. The blood shed in violence, craved by the crowd, “washed off” by Pilate, “bought” by the chief priests and elders, handed over by “one of the twelve”, is the blood—the life and the love—Jesus did not withhold from his enemies, though an army of “more than twelve legions of angels” was his to defend him from death (Mt 26:53).

“Let his blood be on us and on our children”—this is the summary statement, in the voice of “the crowd” because it constitutes the largest grouping of humanity, of the human violence shared from Judas to the chief priests to Pilate. The violence against Jesus rises from its particularity in Judas, the priests, and Pilate to its universality in “the crowd”; all have “conspired”, “taken counsel together against the LORD and his anointed” (Ps 2:1-2).

Therefore, because the violence belongs not to one but to all—because of its universality—the story belongs in 21st-century South Africa as much as first-century Palestine. Wherever violence crescendos out of control, there the passion of Jesus still “speaks a better word” (Heb 12:24). Just as the blood of Jesus was on the crowd and its children not for condemnation but for forgiveness of sins, so it can cover the violent ones in Mandela Park—and the children terrorized by their violence. But in order for that blood to speak a better, more powerful word than the blood of hostility, it will need the old, old story, and those willing to proclaim it.

-Joe

the way of grace

As I prepared to teach on the Psalms—150 “psalms” in five “books”--at Bethany Bible School earlier this month, I found a unifying thread in the subject of “enemies”. The Psalms seem obsessed with “enemies”—how shall one deal with one’s enemies?

Different psalms seem to recommend different courses of action. There is, for example, the violent approach toward enemies in Psalm 18; “David” seems to boast: “I pursued my enemies and overtook them; and did not turn back until they were consumed. I struck them down, so that they were not able to rise; they fell under my feet . . ..I beat them fine, like dust before the wind; I cast them out like the mire of the streets” (18:37-38, 42). In Psalm 58, again “of David”, there is—if not a boast of violence inflicted—delight in the painful demise of “the wicked” (58:3): “Let them be like the snail that dissolves into slime; like the untimely birth that never sees the sun” (58:8). And then, most emphatically: “The righteous will rejoice when they see vengeance done; they will bathe their feet in the blood of the wicked” (58:10).

If Psalms 18 and 58 represent, on one side of a spectrum, a recommendation of violence against one’s enemies (Are the righteous bathing in blood that they have spilled?), others recommend more clearly a path of leaving the course of vengeance to God. For example, Psalm 37:

“Be still before the Lord, and wait patiently for him; do not fret over those who prosper in their way, over those who carry out evil devices. Refrain from anger, and forsake wrath. Do not fret—it leads only to evil. For the wicked shall be cut off, but those who wait for the Lord shall inherit the land” (37:7-9).

Perhaps between the violence of Psalm 18 and the “stillness” of Psalm 37 is what we might call the “confession” of Psalm 139. Without any mention of vengeance taken by his own hands, “David” nonetheless erupts with his mouth against the wicked:

“O that you would kill the wicked, O God, and that the bloodthirsty would depart from me—those who speak of you maliciously, and lift themselves up against you for evil! Do I not hate those who hate you, O Lord? And do I not loathe those who rise up against you? I hate them with perfect hatred; I count them my enemies” (139:19-22).

Even this verbal tirade, however, this eruption against “the wicked” is not directed at them—it is direct address to God: “O Lord”, the Psalm begins, “you have searched me and known me” (139:1). And, after all malice has been said—but not yet done—the Psalm ends where it began—with the Psalmist’s need for God to “search [him] and know [his] heart, with the Psalmist’s need for God “to see if there is any wicked way in me” (139:23-24). Before giving physical expression to his anger, before even any direct expression of his anger against his enemies, the Psalmist gives it to God. And giving it so, “David” finds himself again, after pondering all thoughts far and wide, only with his God (see v. 18). The grace of God, it would seem, is sufficient for him (see also 2 Cor 12:9). It also seems, therefore, that confession—that speaking truth in the presence of God about one’s own condition conditioned by others—is the means of that grace given to us.

So Psalm 32:3-5:

“While I kept silence, my body wasted away through my groaning all day long. For day and night your hand was heavy upon me; my strength was dried up as by the heat of summer. Then I acknowledged my sin to you, and I did not hide my iniquity; I said, ‘I will confess my transgressions to the Lord,’ and you forgave the guilt of my sin.”

-Joe

of water and spirit

One of the great treasures of cross-cultural encounter, one of my particular interests, is how my brothers and sisters interpret the Bible and what texts they use. On Sunday, for example, Pastor Ntapo made use of a puzzling text from one of the New Testament’s oft-neglected books, the letter of Jude.

“But when the archangel Michael contended with the devil and disputed about the body of Moses, he did not dare to bring a condemnation of slander against him, but said, ‘The Lord rebuke you!’ (Jude 1:9)

Pastor Ntapo’s particular interest in this verse, on this particular occasion, was not how it fit within the flow of Jude’s argument, but what information it might offer about the spiritual world which is hidden from human eyes. The former interpretive sensibility, that of reading verses within their literary contexts, is of primary importance for me. Pastor Ntapo, likewise, has demonstrated an ability to read the Bible that way. Nevertheless, our concern to read texts in context should not necessarily preclude our ability to glean other insights from individual verses’ particular words and phrases. In fact, there are many different contexts from which a person might see a verse: not only from a literary or historical perspective but also from the perspective of one’s personal experience of the things of God within a particular culture’s worldview. It may be, in fact, that understanding a particular living culture, being more of the worldview as those of the writers of certain biblical books, is the key to unlocking the meaning of obscure texts which strain the abilities of other interpretive methods.

Another interpretive method, however, which must be in play to evaluate a person’s use of texts is the canonical. Does the way in which a person uses a text, does the message he or she draws from it, accord with the witness of scripture as a whole, that is, with the canon of scripture? My assumption is that there is a main-track, a common vein, running throughout the otherwise diverse writings of the Bible. And for me that common vein, taking as authoritative what Jesus took as authoritative, is “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength; and your neighbor as yourself” (Deut. 6:4; Lev. 19:18; Mt. 22:34-40//Mk. 12:28-34//Lk. 10:25-37).

So what, then, of Pastor Ntapo’s use of Jude 1:9?

Initially, for Pastor Ntapo, the verse seemed to reveal an order for what happens to a person at his or her death. Just as the archangel Michael and the devil disputed over the body of Moses upon his death, so at our deaths two spiritual forces, one of God and one of the devil, will contend with one another for our very beings. And just as Michael had to rebuke the devil in order to secure Moses, so God’s rebuke of the devil will be the determining factor in our own entrance to heaven. If this all seems too speculative, however, the reason given for why our bodies must, like Moses’, hang in the balance at all, is only too relevant. Because Moses sinned, Pastor Ntapo explained, the devil, like God, had a claim on Moses’ life. To illustrate the nature of Moses’ sin—indeed our sin—Pastor Ntapo reminded us of the story of Moses’ disobedience with regard to securing water for his people in the wilderness (Num. 20:1-13). Moses’ sin was his failure to act, in the words of the pastor, “like God.” Whereas God told him to “command the rock before their eyes to yield its water,” Moses “lifted up his hand and struck the rock twice with his staff; water came out abundantly, and the congregation and their livestock drank” (20:8, 11).

In this case, it seems to me, the way in which Moses was supposed to be “like God” is not the same as the way in which, according to the serpent’s words, Adam and Eve would become “like God” (Gen. 3:5). Indeed, in the latter, becoming “like God” was a sin against God, the attempt of human beings to live not according to the design of their creator—“by every word that comes from the mouth of God”—but “by bread alone”—by their own methods of provision (Deut. 8:3; Mt. 4:4). Those methods of provision, Pastor Ntapo was implying, consist of using human strength, physical force, to secure blessings; like Moses, only striking the rock will bring water. By contrast, the power of God is through God’s Word—the power Moses might also have known had he spoken, by God’s command, to the rock. So, yes, though even Moses’ human strength brought forth water, it was not the water “from which one might drink and never thirst again” (Jn. 4:13-14).

In the end, what began as Pastor Ntapo’s interest to understand the hidden world became a clear exhortation for faithful living for his congregation. Just as the dispute over Moses’ body was the result of his own sin, so the patterns we set in life follow us into death. On the same principle, then, by God’s grace, through Jesus, by the peculiar power of his Word, we can drink even now the “water gushing up to eternal life” (Jn. 4:14).

-Joe

mob justice and the justice of God

See this reflection on siyahamba.

-Joe

more than conquerors

"By this sign, conquer."

"See, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has conquered."

These two statements, representing two visions, formed the heart of our exploration at Bethany Bible School on the topic of the History of Christianity.

The first vision, seen by Constantine on the eve of the battle by which he would take control of the Roman Empire, forever muddied, in the course of Christian history, the clarion call of the second vision--that seen by John, a prisoner of the empire--some 200 years earlier.

Constantine's vision of a fiery cross in the sky, accompanied by the words "by this sign, conquer", captivated the students at BBS. I had used the story--from the year 312--as part of my telling of the change of meaning of Christian faith initiated by Constantine's patronage. Now legal, and increasingly privileged, by will of the Emperor, the Christian religion soon became coterminous with power conceived as violence.

The original Christian vision, however, shows power in a different light.

John, greatly weeping because no one was found worthy to open the book and break its seals, hears that a Lion--of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David--has conquered. When John actually looks, however, he sees not a Lion but a Lamb--"standing as if it had been slaughtered." Already identified according to the flesh--as Judah's descendant and David's heir to the throne--the King's true identity, according to the Spirit, is now revealed: not slayer but slain; prey, not predator; not conqueror, but conquered.

Except that the King has conquered, and precisely because of his playing the Lamb. "Worthy are you," sings the heavenly choir, "because you were slaughtered."

"So," I asked. "Are these two visions--Constantine's and John's--the same vision? Or are they different?"

"I think they are different," said Pastor Mgodeli. "Constantine was told to conquer; the Lamb already has conquered."

I was looking for something even more explicit, that is, how the Lamb conquered: by giving his own life rather than taking the lives of his enemies (I did, in fact, add this point). Yet Pastor Mgodeli's answer, while implying mine, also ensures that the text's pitch of hope remains high, thereby empowering our perseverance in love in the face of evil. Because our Lamb has already conquered, we don't have to.

"We are", in fact, "more than conquerors through him who loved us" (Rom 8:37).