I’ve been thinking a lot this last week about the world Jesus was born into: a world where some Jewish people were exiled, others living under Roman occupation. The Jews in Israel were ruled by one of their own, a royal governor, whose allegiance to his people was never as strong as his allegiance to the Roman state, the source of his power. It is into this system our God comes in the flesh to dwell among humankind. His birth is immediately met with sweeping violence, the loss of a generation of young boys and babies because the mere existence of a Jewish Messiah was too great a risk for the governor to take. For this Emmanuel threatened to completely expose the king’s misplaced loyalty. Christ questioned the legitimacy of the king’s power simply through the defiant act of growing up, of surviving.
Our Emmanuel still comes to us in these times when young people lose their lives to powers that were supposedly installed to protect and serve justice.
Our Emmanuel still comes and flips over tables in our temples, asking us to consider what could possibly be more valuable than the human beings that bear His image? Surely not our places of commerce. Surely not the well-established disorder we absentmindedly worship. I think about the heat and rage in this image of Jesus chasing money changers out of the temple. I can’t imagine a more upsetting scene than a previously patient and peaceful teacher, a devout Jewish man, thrashing about and destroying property His people thought was sacred, devoted to God’s work.
The Jews were so used to this system. It’s just how it worked. This is how God wants it, right? It was painful to the most vulnerable, yet so familiar and entrenched it demanded cooperation. But Jesus wanted them to see it for what it was: a yoke of oppression. In Luke, He says, “The Spirit of the Lord has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners, and recovery of sight for the blind, to set the oppressed free.” He delivered on that promise, but whether it was in the temple courts or on the cross where Jesus died, surely from the outside, it all looked like destruction.
Austin Channing wrote this week:
I serve a demonstrating Christ. Surely Christ could have stood on the steps of the temple, at the entrance and waved his arm toward the commotion. Surely he could have declared to anyone who would stop long enough to listen, “Do you see what is happening in there?” “Don’t you think someone should stop this?” Surely he could have taken his twelve from stall to stall and quietly pointed out each atrocity before his eyes. Calmly explaining his rationale to each seller, he could have ministered to each one persuading them to do what it right. Surely he could have been patient and kind asking each one to please leave the temple. Surely he could have used humor to catch people off guard. Or perhaps he could have waited- waited until the day was done, until Passover was done, until the Temple was done. Surely he could have… could have done anything other than demonstrate.
But I serve a Christ who disrupts.
In the past week, we’ve seen much agitation in our country. There have been intense and deliberate attempts to discredit the work and motives of the righteously indignant people of Ferguson. For months, for years, even lifetimes for some of them, these folks have been working for a new order that addresses historic and systemic injustices. Scripture says the enemy of God prowls like a lion. It warns us to be sober and alert. Twitter activists keep reminding all of us to #staywoke. I imagine the Enemy’s pace is quickening even now as we collectively and individually consider the possibility that this system we take for granted and call “order,” is in fact, white supremacy: an evil that must be uprooted in our hearts, our churches, and every human institution.
We are told in Scripture to get mentally and spiritually destructive about this:
For though we walk in the flesh, we are not waging war according to the flesh. For the weapons of our warfare are not of the flesh but have divine power to destroy strongholds. We destroy arguments and every lofty opinion raised against the knowledge of God, and take every thought captive to obey Christ, (2 Corinthians 10:3-5 ESV)
Yet, I’m still seeing white Christians post this malarkey unchallenged by their white friends:
So when we see conversations about Ferguson take the ugliest of turns, we must respond with truth that affirms the humanity of all involved. We cannot congratulate any person on the taking of human life. Nor can we sit idly by while people are called or treated as “animals.”
Lord, be merciful, for we are quick to condemn that which we are slow to understand. I thought momentarily about prefacing this whole post with “I don’t condone rioting,” but I’m not going to dismiss what’s been happening that easily. The situation requires inquiry and empathy not qualification or pat denouncements. Such condemnations attempt to keep the pain and anger of this community at a distance, and it reinforces a respectability standard that is unjust and impossible for black people to maintain. Roxane Gay wrote this week:
If we were talking about the murder of my child, I would not be dignified. I would be naked and hideous with my grief. I would rage. If I were murdered in such a manner, I would want people to rage on my behalf. I would want to be remembered loudly, with fire. Such visible outrage could be its own kind of grace.
Don’t misunderstand those words. Violence is not the answer but neither is peace.
White supremacy has been pressing down hard for centuries. Sometimes, folks are going to push back hard, especially when little attention or recourse has been given for their pain.
I believe it’s going to take a lot more agitation before we see progress. The frustration may get worse before it gets better. I do not know if those of us new to the fight have the stamina for it. We are untested and unreliable. We have to be willing to push forward anyway. We have role models among us. Let’s get behind them and learn.
I have hope that things are changing because I know God stands with the oppressed. He kneels to wash their feet and bind their wounds. He does not condemn them even if, in the weakness of their humanity, they falter. He says, when you see them, you see me. What you do to them, you do to me. What you do for them and with them, you do for and with me.
But He doesn’t stop there because He offers hope and conciliation for repentant oppressors, like Paul and Zacchaeus too. He gives second chances and a new calling to those who, in their ignorance or despair, did not recognize Him even as He walked and talked with them for miles.
God’s justice is not [color]blind justice. The only scales in His hands are those He has lovingly removed from our eyes so that we can see our brothers and sisters, and fully commit ourselves to them. If things feel out of balance right now, ask yourself why. Could it be that God has come and is righteously wrecking the former things, so that He can show us once again, “behold, I make all things new.” Sometimes it’s good to be unbalanced.
Perhaps like Isaiah, when we recognize the image of God resting on our black brothers and sisters, we will rightly respond with Isaiah’s confession when he saw the glory of God: “Woe to me! I am ruined! For I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips, and my eyes have seen the King, the Lord Almighty.” It’s possible when we do that, He will invite us to join Him in the work He’s already doing.
May all of us who have been missing what God is up to in our day be made new in this generation to stand for justice alongside the oppressed.
**If you’re not already reading Ta-Nehisi Coates, start now.