IVP - Strangely Dim - October 2008 Archives

Brian McLaren's Gonna DJ at the End of the World

I heard Brian McLaren present at the Christian Community Development Association (CCDA) annual conference last week, where he led a roomful of people in a chanted prayer for justice after sharing the lyrics to Joni Mitchell's "Woodstock" as a pattern for Christian justice work. Or something like that; I was a bit sleep-deprived. The lyrics to that song, however, are pretty great: as Steve Turner indicates in his book Imagine: A Vision for Christians in the Arts, the biblical image of weapons of war being refashioned into "plowshares and pruning hooks" is given a contemporary translation of bombers becoming butterflies. Sure, the hippies had a thing for butterflies, but it's an image worth praying for regardless.

Today Brian listed some other songs for a redemptive playlist on his blog, among them a video from his newly released worship album, two songs by Ben Harper ("With My Own Two Hands" and "Picture of Jesus"), and John Mayer's "Waiting on the World to Change." A few more songs and Brian will replace Michael Stipe as my choice for "DJ at the End of the World."

Brian's song choices have particular meaning to me; "With My Own Two Hands" was regularly on repeat as I wrote my first book, Comic Book Character, as it sets the tone for a gutsy, shalom-directed activism that resonates with my own desire to be some kind of hero. Harper re-recorded this reggae anthem as a lullaby for the Curious George soundtrack, which would inspire wonderful childhood dreams, I'd imagine. At his workshop at CCDA, Brian employed similar language: our aim is not to be villains or victims but to align ourselves with our Hero--sidekicks of the Savior, as I like to think of it.

"Picture of Jesus" was the song I listened to at the 2003 Urbana Student Missions Conference as the clock passed from 11:59 p.m., December 31, to 12:00 a.m., 2004. Harper has recorded that song twice: once with Ladysmith Black Mambazo (my Urbana version) and once with the Blind Boys of Alabama, the CD for which I have since lost. In any event, the lyric "I long to be a picture of Jesus" was a good, peaceful way to ring in the new year in solitude, and not a bad New Year's resolution either.

"Waiting on the World to Change" was a good organizing idea for me as I wrote Deliver Us from Me-Ville, as it represents an anthem of sorts for Generation Me. I blogged about it here at the time of its release; and Brian's post made me nostalgic for the post. I reprint it here for your amusement.

***

Everybody Needs a Theme Song

I'm not ashamed to admit it: I'm a fan of John Mayer. Sure he's a pretty-boy, sure he dated Jessica Simpson, sure he's on shuffle on my thirteen-year-old cousin's iPod and on the wall in her room, sure he's a little smug and self-important. But I'm a fan, for a number of reasons.

For one thing, when he was a kid he liked to dress up as a superhero, and you have to respect that. For another thing, he plays guitar like he invented it. But more than those reasons is the fact that he dares to speak for an entire generation of people. That takes moxie, and I respect moxie.

He's written about the bitter nostalgia of life after high school, the social awkwardness of relationships, the wonders of sexual intimacy, the perils of vocational uncertainty and the quarter-life crisis. He's a living, breathing discography of early-adult ennui. And now he's written what I hereby nominate as the theme song of Generation Me: "Waiting on the World to Change."

Generation Me, characterized by author and psychologist Jean Twenge as adult survivors of the self-esteem movement, is known for confidence that borders on arrogance and self-importance that borders on narcissism, but also for a profoundly fragile self-image and a low threshold for depression. Twenge argues that where twenty-somethings in the late 1960s were characterized by statements such as "I can change the world!" Generation Me is characterized by statements such as "You can't beat the system."

You could spend forever exploring the origins of this pandemic of fatalism among people born after 1970, but thanks to John Mayer, you don't have to look far to see its impact. In "Waiting on the World to Change" he asserts that "me and all my friends, we're all misunderstood." He doesn't try to overcome the misunderstanding, he just embraces the reality. You can't beat the system. You have to play the hand you're dealt. Fill in your own cliche here.

The self-esteem movement shows its influence as Mayer claims a critical omniscience--"We see everything that's going wrong"--but he then confesses an inability to address the problems: "We just feel like we don't have the means to rise above and beat it." You could understand why a person who sees all the bad in the world and yet feels powerless in the face of it would struggle with depression. And why does Generation Me feel powerless to change their world? Because someone else pulls all the strings: "When they own the information, they can bend it all they want." You can't trust what you know because you can't trust the people who put it in your head.

Mayer and his fellow twenty-somethings are often derided as hopelessly apathetic, which is a pretty hopeless and apathetic thing to say about a group of people, if you think about it. In reality, apathy is an understandable response to hopelessness; a defense mechanism, so to speak. Here's the lyric that jumped out at me more than anything in the song, maybe because it's such a clever rhyme, maybe because it betrays just a hint of attitude by using the word ain't: "It's not that we don't care, we just know that the fight ain't fair."

This, ladies and gentlemen, is the world we inhabit: a chronic sense of helplessness in the face of an unrelenting onslaught of big problems, combined with an ingrained suspicion of authority born out of scandal after scandal across the spectrum of life experience. Our government and industry leaders, our local and international authorities, our priests and pastors, our parents and teachers, our friends and neighbors, have all fallen short of the glory of God--and we see the impact on ourselves and everything around us. It's all too much.

Nevertheless, Mayer is able to muster up some meager hope, and that hope may just be enough to tide him and his friends over: "One day our generation is gonna rule the population, so we keep on waiting on the world to change." There's plenty of circumspection that needs to take place between now and then--particularly that what we are thinking about everybody else, they are thinking about us--but in the meantime let me share words of encouragement from another cynical yet insightful songwriter, Tom Petty: "You're all right for now."

Oops, We Nearly Forgot Balaam's Ass

The donkey saw me and turned away from me these three times. If she had not turned away, I would certainly have killed you by now, but I would have spared her. (Numbers 22:33)

Jehdeiah, Donkey Caretaker

In today's Donkey Tale we dive deep into 1 Chronicles, almost to the end of the book, to find out what we can about a little-known-but-clearly-important figure: the man behind King David's donkeys.

I bet you've never heard of Jehdeiah. His name, unlike Jacob and Matthew and Joshua (all in the top ten for 2007), has never been on the "Most Popular Baby Names" list. I didn't go to school with anyone named Jehdeiah. And I'm guessing even my friend Joel (who knows just about everyone; you probably know him too) doesn't know any Jehdeiahs.

Moreover, 1 Chronicles 27:30 is not the first verse we're generally told to memorize. Not even the second one, after John 3:16. And the whole verse isn't actually about Jehdeiah. He only gets half a verse; Obil gets the first part. But today, in this second Donkey Tale Fortnight at Strangely Dim, I would like to speak for Jehdeiah. But first, like any good exegete, we have to read the verse--well, half-verse--first:

Jehdeiah the Meronothite was in charge of the donkeys.

Simply stated. No bells and whistles and needless braying. Don't you feel like you know him already?

Here's a little context for you since the verse is a touch sparse when it comes to details. At the end of David's kingship, 1 Chronicles 23-27 gives somewhat of a "who's who in the kingdom" overview, almost as David might have told it to his son Solomon in passing over the crown. So amongst the lists of priests and Levites and gatekeepers and treasurers and officers and officials and singers, we find the list of David's overseers--the ones who took care of his property--and amongst the list of overseers, we find Jehdeiah, the one who took care of David's donkeys.

I know what you're thinking. Who cares? Now, granted, in the grand biblical narrative from Genesis to Revelation, this isn't the most crucial verse. I highly doubt the next great worship song will mention Jehdeiah. But I love that this verse is in here, and here's why: It reminds me that people matter to God.

I'm guessing that Jehdeiah's job, while perhaps well-paying for the times, was not the most pleasant or glamorous job. As king, David must have had hundreds of donkeys, and all of them would have needed water and food and places to bed, and, being load-bearing creatures, they most likely had to be saddled and unsaddled frequently, and, being stubborn animals, they most likely didn't always want to be saddled and unsaddled. And he was in charge of them all. It's a job that, while messy and seemingly insignificant (both in Scripture and as we think about it today), needed someone responsible, someone David trusted. And Jehdeiah was the man who got it, and whose name is in the God-inspired Bible for doing it.

So maybe I'm making too much out of this half-verse. Maybe I picked it because we're nearing the end of our second Fortnight of Donkey Tales and it's slim pickins for donkey passages. Actually, no. There are, surprisingly, still plenty of verses left that mention donkeys. I picked this verse because I was intrigued that it's in there at all. As I started to ponder why it's there, though, other people recorded in Scripture started coming to mind--people who, while maybe more familiar to us than Jehdeiah, had positions or diseases that made them undesirable, that made others view them as insignificant and not important: Rahab, prostitute; Bartimaeus, blind beggar; a man covered with leprosy; a woman subject to bleeding for twelve years; Hagar, abused servant; Ishmael, bastard son; Ruth, immigrant. Over and over, Scripture devotes verses--from one verse to whole books of the Bible--to the poor, the cast-off and rejected, the "unclean" (whether literally, like Jehdeiah may have been, or ritually, according to Jewish law, or both).

Our society has a decidedly lopsided and narrow focus of who deserves to be noticed, and who deserves to have their name written down. The rock stars, the actors and actresses, the CEOs (though they're not winning any votes these days), the fashion designers who start the newest trends, virtually anyone wealthy. In comparison, it can be hard to know our own significance, and difficult to work hard at jobs that go largely unrecognized or unpraised by the rest of society.

But the fact that Jehdeiah is listed at all in Scripture reminds me what kind of God we worship--one who who notices the kings and the donkey caretakers, one who views us as significant no matter what we do, one who honors our faithfulness in the little things especially, and in all that we do, whether it's in our work or our play or our relationships. So whatever your title, whatever responsibilities you have--barista, bus driver, professional bowler, sandwich maker--take some encouragement from Jehdeiah, the Donkey Caretaker. Your work matters. And the One whose title is King of Kings and Lord of Lords notices you.

--Lisa Rieck, Editorial Assistant, Peanut-Butter Enthusiast, Introvert and Proud Owner of a Metal Lunchbox

Saddle Up Yer Donkey

How long does it take a donkey to carry a woman twenty miles? I have no idea, but that's what the donkey in today's Donkey Tale does. (Feel free to let us know if you figure out the answer.)

In one of last week's Donkey Tales we looked at Isaac (a.k.a. Miracle Child) and why Abraham (a.k.a. Loving Father of Miracle Child) almost had to kill him. The possibility of Abraham's really having to sacrifice the son he loved so deeply, as well as his faith in God's sovereignty before knowing how things would end, were both hard for me to imagine.

In the days of Elisha, in a place called Shunem, another Miracle Child actually does die. This son is not even named in Scripture, but his birth occurs in similar circumstances to Isaac's. The child's mother and father, apparently wealthy, provide Elisha with a place to stay whenever he needs it. In return for their kindness, he promises the childless woman and her old husband a child within the year. Like Sarah, this woman is skeptical--but also like Sarah, she holds a son in her arms a year later.

We don't know how much time passes (2 Kings 4:18 simply says "the child grew"), but one day the boy complains to his father that his head hurts. By noon, verse 20 tells us, he's dead.

Once again, Scripture doesn't give us much insight into the woman's thoughts or emotional reaction. But it seems safe to say she loved her son every bit as much as Abraham loved Isaac, and I would imagine that his death--a death that occurred in her arms--caused the deepest pain she'd experienced so far in her life.

Which is why what she does next is so challenging to me. After laying her son on Elisha's bed, she immediately goes outside and asks her husband to send a servant and a donkey to her so that she can go see Elisha, the "man of God." He seems confused but obliges her request. So "she saddled the donkey and said to her servant, 'Lead on; don't slow down for me unless I tell you'" (v. 24).

They find Elisha about fifteen or twenty miles away, at Mount Carmel. She falls at his feet when she reaches him, and, through Elisha's statement to his servant in verse 27, we get our first glimpse of her emotional state: "bitter distress." Upon seeing her grief, Elisha sends his servant ahead of them--telling him to tuck his cloak in his belt and run--to try to revive the boy, but the servant's efforts are unsuccessful. So when Elisha reaches the house, "there was the boy lying dead on his couch. He went in, shut the door on the two of them and prayed to the LORD." Elisha then climbs onto the couch and lies on top of the boy. The boy's body starts to get warm. So, after walking around the room, Elisha lies on top of him again. And then, as if waking from a nap, the boy sneezes and opens his eyes: miraculous birth number two.

Here's what gets me: In the deepest grief she's ever known, the Shunammite woman--again, an apparently wealthy woman who most likely has any material item she needs right at her fingertips--saddles her donkey and gets to the man of God as fast as she can. He performed a miracle for her once; he must be able to do it again.

Her faith, like Abraham's, is much stronger than mine. In times of pain and grief, immediately turning to God is not always my first response. In those moments, I don't usually recall all that he's done for me--which includes physically healing me when I was in high school and woke up too feverish and nauseous to play in a regional tennis match. And, when I do recall his gifts, his miracles, in my life, I'm too timid to ask him boldly for another gift or miracle, assuming I've already received my allotted amount from him.

But the fact is, he wants me to come to him as quickly and boldly as the Shunammite woman went to Elisha. And the truth is, he's as eager to help as Elisha was--and his power that caused this boy's birth and resurrection is as strong and active today as it was then.

So, Strangely Dim friends, in your grief, in your pain, in your confusion--get on your donkey and go to him. Which is to say, cry out to him. He already beside you, eagerly waiting for you to call on him, ready to respond in wisdom and power to bring you back to life.

Call It What You Want, It's Still the Jawbone of an Ass

Today's donkey tale proves that donkeys don't even have to be alive to be significant.

This summer my pastor ran a series called "Bedtime Bible Studies Revisited," based on the idea that the Bible, a book for adults, is most often read to kids in an attempt to make them fall asleep. In the process some of the key details and fullest meaning of those Bible stories drift out of the church's consciousness. Tucked into the middle of this series was the subject of today's donkey tale.

Finding a fresh jawbone of a donkey, he grabbed it and struck down a thousand men.

Then Samson said,
       "With a donkey's jawbone
       I have made donkeys of them.
       With a donkey's jawbone
       I have killed a thousand men." (Judges 15:15-16)

Everybody likes Samson; we even name our luggage after him. But truth be told, he's not a terribly likeable guy. Anyone who can kill a thousand men without subsequently spending a great deal of time in somber reflection is lacking a certain amount of spiritual depth. But we knew that already, because by this time in Samson's story he's already effectively violated nearly every element of the promise his parents made to God on his behalf before he was even born.

Before he was canonized as one of the judges, or deliverers, of Israel Samson was born a Nazirite, much like John the Baptist was born a Nazirite before he was labeled a Baptist. Nazirite vows were, for the most part, temporary commitments, but both Samson and John were born into lifelong vows, which involved a series of sacrifices but more notably a distinct lifestyle:

* no grapes or grape byproducts (such as wine)
* no contact with the dead
* no haircuts for the entire length of the vow.

Samson, however, regularly indulged in wine to great excess and regularly came into contact with dead stuff--usually stuff that he himself had killed, often because he was such a surly drunk. He killed a lion and went back later to scoop honey out of its carcass. He set a whole village on fire by tying foxes and torches together. And then he killed a thousand people with the most convenient weapon on hand--the fresh jawbone of an ass (KJV).

In fact, by this point in Samson's story, the only aspect of the Nazirite vow that we haven't seen him violate is the rule against cutting his hair. And we all know how that turned out. But once Samson was shaved bald, the Bible tells us, "the hair on his head began to grow again" (Judges 16:22).

This passing comment is one aspect of what the entire epic of Samson reminds us all: Regardless of evidence to the contrary, you are what God calls you, and you're to do what God calls you to do. God, despite Samson's indulgence in Delilah and drink and death, had called him a lifelong Nazirite and Israel's deliverer (Judges 13:5), and God ultimately, mysteriously delivered Israel through Samson's Nazirite vow (Judges 16).

Like Samson, we can't relieve ourselves of our responsibility to God, but we can trust that even occasionally in spite of us, God will make a way for us to accomplish his will for us. It's the harmonization of our own wills to the will of God--the willful embrace of the calling God calls us to--that makes for Christian maturity. For the way to become mature, however--which is essentially the way to become wise, which is essentially the way to not become an ass--we have to turn not to Samson but to Job:

A witless man can no more become wise
       than a wild donkey's colt can be born a man.

Yet if you devote your heart to him
       and stretch out your hands to him,

if you put away the sin that is in your hand
       and allow no evil to dwell in your tent,

then you will lift up your face without shame;
       you will stand firm and without fear. (Job 11:12-15)

So today, as you consider your path, don't stretch your hands out to the nearest jawbone of an ass, those things you know you're not supposed to mess with. Instead stretch your hands out to God, and you'll discover that you're well on your way to wisdom and maturity with all your necessary parts intact. 

If You Give a Donkey a Day Off . . .

Today's Donkey Tale lands in the Old Testament once again, in the Ten Commandments to be exact. (How many of you knew there were donkeys in the Ten Commandments???) 

According to author Laura Numeroff, "If you give a mouse a cookie, he's going to ask for a glass of milk." "If you give a pig a pancake, she's going to ask for some balloons." And "if you give a moose a muffin, he'll want some jam to go with it." She hasn't written a donkey book, but if she does, I suggest she start it like this: "If you give a donkey a day off, he's going to want some thought-provoking books to read."

Since donkeys are popping up everywhere these days (if you haven't seen them, you must not be looking hard enough), I imagine she'll want to do a donkey book soon. And she's welcome to take my suggestion for an opening line--but I didn't actually come up with the idea of giving your donkey a day off by myself. The idea has been around for a long time:

Observe the Sabbath day by keeping it holy, as the LORD your God has commanded you. Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a Sabbath to the LORD your God. On it you shall not do any work, neither you, nor your son or daughter, nor your manservant or maidservant, nor your ox, your donkey or any of your animals, nor the alien within your gates, so that your manservant and maidservant may rest, as you do. Remember that you were slaves in Egypt and that the LORD your God brought you out of there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm. Therefore the LORD your God has commanded you to observe the Sabbath day.

Now, I am all for giving my donkey a day off. And my ox and my manservant and maidservant, not to mention my son or daughter or any foreigners. If I had responsibility for any of those, I would definitely give them a day off each week.

Furthermore, I myself quite enjoy days off--both weekends and holidays or vacation time. I cherish my vacation days and count them closely, carefully planning how and when I'll use each one. Rest is hugely important, I know; I finish each weekend and vacation by moaning that I want more time to rest. So reading God's commandment to the Israelites should make us almost giddy with delight. "What?? God's commanding us to take a day off?? Is he for real???!?"

And yet, for most American Christians, I'm guessing it's in the bottom five for most-followed commands out of the ten commandments listed in Deuteronomy. I certainly don't do it, even though every day I feel my tiredness, my exhaustion, my need for stillness and rest. While I do guard my Sunday afternoons carefully as my "introvert-recovery/introvert-readying-for-the-week-ahead time" I often do work, or laundry, or dishes, or cleaning, or any other number of "urgent" tasks that, while not always pleasant, feed some type of addiction to productivity and usefulness in me.

Why is this invitation to rest often so hard? I know why it feels so difficult for me: I'm afraid to admit my own uselessness, and I feel unable to grasp my inherent value apart from anything I do. Our workplaces, our busy culture that keeps us running, even our churches often communicate to us that we are valuable because of what we do. There's no clear line between "lazy" and "resting," so we seem to stay far away from both.

But God's list of people and animals that are to rest on the Sabbath reminds me that we're created for work and play and rest; rest is part of his intention and desire for us. Undomesticated animals don't seem to fight this. For example, they don't run all the time (some of them, like turtles, never run at all). They run when they need to, when they want to. And then they rest.

How much more should we--the most complex of God's creation, created to be over the animals--be able to recognize our need for rest and take it, obeying his instructions?

Obedience isn't the only reason for rest, though. Practicing the Sabbath was supposed to remind the Israelites of the way God had freed them (in his own power, without any help from them), and what he had freed them from (lives of labor and slavery to work). And that's what our practice of the Sabbath will remind us of as well. I believe that if we really begin to consistently incorporate a day of true rest, we'll be freed from slavery to productivity and to proving our worth based on what we do. Instead, we'll be free to live securely in the knowledge of our own value in God's eyes, apart from what we do, and free to trust God to accomplish things so that we can rest--things that he can accomplish in better and wiser ways than we could anyway.

So this week, give your donkey a break. But even more, give yourself a break. God has an opening line for your story too: "If you take a Sabbath day, you're going to start to know your value, and . . ." First rest, then tell us how the rest of it goes.
 

His Eye Is on the Donkey

Beast of Burden

On Monday Dave blogged about Moses; today's Donkey Tale takes us to another Old Testament great: Abraham. And, of course, his donkey.

On this Wednesday, even if your day is going well so far, I don't think any of us would argue with the fact that days are hard. We are called to hard tasks, to places where it's hard to see any light. But we aren't intended to face days, conversations, situations alone, because we're called to invite each other in to our pain, to walk with each other and--like the donkey in our tale today--carry each other's load.

I was reminded of this recently at the Art--Music--Justice concert I attended. One song by Sandra McCracken particularly struck me. She explained that she had written it for a friend--apparently a friend who tends to hold pain inside and keep it private, which I can relate to!--who had gone through a hard struggle:

I cannot read your complex mind
I can't understand all the reasons why
but if you let me in,
I can try if you want me to

But you're under lock and key
all by yourself,
and sometimes you just need somebody else

Her lyrics highlight the sacredness of being both a burden-bearer--willing to carry someone else's load--and a burden-sharer--willing to let others help us carry our load. The song reminds me of the freedom we have as Christians to need each other; God, in fact, wants us to ask for help. Often I don't do a good job of this; I wrestle with loneliness because I'm afraid or unwilling to share my struggle with others.

Which is maybe why Abraham's journey in Genesis 22 moves me deeply. Just one chapter earlier, Isaac--Abraham and Sarah's promised, long-awaited miracle child--is born. He is the one through whom God has said he'll make Sarah "the mother of nations" and the ancestor of kings, and Abraham the father of offspring as numerous as the stars.

And then comes Genesis 22:2. God--the one who always keeps his promises and detests nations that sacrifice their children to gods--says to Abraham, "Take your son, your only son, whom you love--Isaac--and go to the region of Moriah. Sacrifice him there as a burnt offering on a mountain I will show you." The instructions seem to go directly against what we know of God's character, breaking one of the "rules" frequently suggested by pastors and spiritual directors about how to discern whether or not you've actually heard God's voice. Yet Abraham knows without a doubt that God is the one who has spoken to him.

The passage gives us none of Abraham's thoughts or emotions, no hint of how he reacted to this shocking and seemingly unfair task from God. Verse 3 simply says, "Early the next morning Abraham got up and loaded his donkey. He took with him two of his servants and his son Isaac." From verse 3 alone, we might think they were merely setting out on a weekend father-son camping trip.

In all honesty, I can hardly comprehend what that journey must have been like for Abraham, walking with two servants who have no idea why they're taking the trip (see v. 5), and watching Isaac--his son whom he loves--most likely running, jumping, picking up sticks to play with as they go, totally oblivious to the instructions God gave Abraham, completely trusting of his father. To me, the trip feels like it must have been extraordinarily lonely for Abraham.

Yet the picture of Abraham's donkey bearing the physical load, plodding along next to Abraham in his grief, gives me a good picture of what God calls us to do for each other. Donkeys are, quite simply, load-bearing creatures; they carry people and provisions, as Abraham's donkey does here. They aren't fast or beautiful, but they are strong, and can walk with a heavy load on their back. The donkey in this passage, set next to Abraham's pain, provides a tangible image of the gift we can give each other by walking with each other in our struggles.

I'm also reminded in this passage of God's faithfulness in walking with us through our pain. To be honest, I think I would have disobeyed God. Or, if I had obeyed, I at least would have ranted and raved at God's seeming cruelty and unfairness. By the end of the passage, however, we're left with the image of Abraham's trust and God's goodness.

Again, the passage gives us no glimpse into Abraham's thoughts, but when Isaac asks him where the lamb for the offering is, Abraham replies, "God himself will provide the lamb for the burnt offering." Based on what's recorded, it doesn't seem like Abraham wavers, questions, gets angry, doubts. He seems to go through the experience matter-of-factly, exhibiting faith that God will somehow work out the details, that there is, in fact, some divine plan and reason for the task. Yet, despite the depth of Abraham's trust, we know he was human; he was a father who deeply, deeply loved his son, and I have to believe it nearly killed him to strap Isaac to that altar.

In the end, of course, an angel stops Abraham from actually killing Isaac. God was simply testing Abraham, and, in keeping with his perfectly good nature, he richly rewards Abraham for his obedience. It's that obedience and faith--obedience before Abraham knew how it would all turn out--that makes me think Abraham knew God was with him. It reminds me of the fact that, as awful as God's instructions to him seem at the beginning, God was with Abraham, watching his journey, understanding the depth of Abraham's sorrow at every step, knowing he would experience the same sorrow when the time came to sacrifice his own Son. He loved Abraham deeply and knew he had good plans for him and for Isaac--plans to reward his faith and obedience and make him known throughout the earth for thousands and thousands of years.

So for the hard days--yours or others--be a donkey. Find a donkey. It's what we're called to be and do for each other; the church is meant to be a people who bear each other's burdens. As fellow humans living on a broken, sinful earth where evil still lives, having others who will walk with us through struggle, pain and grief is crucial--and, in fact, woven into the very fabric of our being by God himself. He created us to need others, to crave relationship with others.
And, following in the example Abraham sets for us in our passage today, we can not only walk with others and invite others to walk with us; we can actually choose to have faith in the midst of sorrow, because the God who is faithful, who is trustworthy, who is, in fact, able to "empathize with our weaknesses," walks with us.

King of the Mashup

Today's donkey tale comes just in time for Yom Kippur, as it has to do with two other major Jewish holidays--not to mention atonement.

Jesus found a little donkey and sat on it. As the Bible says,

Do not fear, daughter Zion!
Look! Your king is coming now;
Sitting on a donkey's colt. (John 12:14-15, quoting Zechariah 9:9, translated by N. T. Wright)

On the week of the Passover, the celebration of the Jews' deliverance from slavery in Egypt through the culmination of the plagues and the sacrifice of the firstborn, Jesus entered Jerusalem--but not before he sent ahead for a donkey that he could ride in on. If anyone asked why his messengers were taking a donkey, he told them to say, "The Lord needs it."

Why does Jesus, a lifelong walker, suddenly need a donkey? Dorothy Sayers imagines a prior conversation between Jesus and the Zealots. They want him to join them, to lead them in the overthrow of Roman oppressors. They give him a signal to alert them to his decision: hitched together are a horse and a donkey; if he chooses to fight, the horse is his, but if he chooses otherwise, he is to take the donkey. Jesus chooses not to fight.

It's compelling drama, this imagined apocryphal interchange, but it's not the only horse in this theoretical race. N. T. Wright, in his John for Everyone commentary, suggests that Jesus rode a donkey, accompanied by followers waving palm branches, as a symbolic reminder of the Maccabean revolt led by Judas Maccabaeus, which was celebrated by waving palm branches while entering Jerusalem and culminated in "Judas and his family [becoming] kings of Israel." In other words, Jesus is celebrating Hanukkah.

But Hanukkah is usually mashed up with Christmas, not with Easter. Easter--the story being told here--is mashed up with Passover, the celebration of God's (not the king's) deliverance of Israel from Egypt. That's what Jesus was trotting into atop this donkey. Is Jesus guilty of mixing metaphors?

Let this be a lesson to you, boys and girls: rules can be broken, but only once you've mastered the rules. Jesus is bringing together Hanukkah and Passover as a third reminder to his people: God--no mere man--is the true king of Israel. The Maccabean deliverance was led by mere men and didn't take, and the Jewish kingship had suffered a gradual hollowing out by the long line of people whom Rome had graciously allowed to occupy the throne. The deliverance that took, that dealt firmly and finally with Israel's oppressors, came from God and God alone, and everything--not just the powers that be--was changed as a result.

Jesus accomplishes this great mashup of imagery by riding a colt, the foal of a donkey. Zechariah goes on in his messianic prophecy:

He will proclaim peace to the nations.
His rule will extend from sea to sea
and from the River to the ends of the earth.

As for you, because of the blood of my covenant with you,
I will free your prisoners from the waterless pit. (Zechariah 9:10-11)

Jesus' reminder of the blood covenant is still coming, mere days away, and will bring into this matrix of metaphors the third great Jewish holiday: Yom Kippur, the day of Atonement. But for now he rides a donkey, proclaiming peace, and the people lay down branches before him, shouting "Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!"

Other People's Donkeys

Today's Donkey Tale takes us into the desert, where we find Moses facing some heat.

Moses became very angry and said to the LORD, "Do not accept their offering. I have not taken so much as a donkey from them, nor have I wronged any of them." (Numbers 16:15)

Try walking through a desert for forty years and see how well you get along with people. Moses, one of the key figures of the Old Testament--so key that Jesus summoned him to a meeting with him and Elijah in the New Testament--had the tough job of delivering an enslaved Israel out of Egypt and then delivering an ungrateful Israel into a land flowing with milk and honey. In between the two he had to walk for years along a senselessly meandering path through a desert. And along the way he faced betrayal and even mutiny from people who didn't know where they were going or why they left in the first place.

In Numbers 16 Moses faces a particularly frustrating trial, as Korah and a few other insurrectionists accuse him of hoarding power and lording it over them. They tell him, in their outdoor voices, "You have gone too far!" Interestingly enough, that's how Moses feels about them. "You Levites have gone too far!" he shouts in response.

It would be laughable if it weren't so potentially calamitous: two type-A leaders taking classic positions--one for the even distribution of power throughout the community (Korah) and one for the respect of God's ordained and established hierarchy (Moses)--in the middle of a pilgrimage to (seemingly) nowhere. But this was a walk they'd been ordained to take, all the way from Egypt to what would become Israel. This was God's gift to them, and God had prepared Moses to be their guide, and Aaron to be their priest.

Moses had not necessarily shown to this point that he knew where he was going or how long it would take to get there, but he had shown empirically that God was with them, providing for them and watching over them. To challenge Moses' authority was to challenge Moses' interpretation of history, which was to challenge the presence and ongoing work of God among the people.

It's one thing to challenge authority; it's another altogether to subvert it. Dathan and Abiram, two of Korah's co-conspirators, moved beyond opposition to defiance, refusing to come when Moses called them. The message they sent back was a slap in the face; for Dathan and Abiram, Egypt was the land flowing with milk and honey, and Moses had offered them nothing but a death march. Moses responded not to them but to God: "Do not accept their offering. I have not taken so much as a donkey from them, nor have I wronged any of them."

The Bible establishes authority by the call of God but validates it by the careful handling of power. Moses, who could have demanded everything of his people, didn't even take one of their donkeys. David, who could have seized property to consecrate the ark of the covenant and so stave off a crisis, demanded to pay full market value instead, showing himself in the process to be just and devout. Samuel, the last judge of Israel, critiqued a culture of kingship first by reminding the people that he had taken nothing from them, then by warning them that a king would take everything from them.

The mishandling of power is also in view throughout the Bible. The apostle John calls out Diotrephes, "who loves to be first," as someone obstructing the work of God in the early church. Rehoboam, in one of his first acts as king over Israel, tries to prove to the people and to himself that he'll be stronger than his father--Solomon, the wisest man who ever lived. By his actions he effectively splits the kingdom in two and inagurates the inevitable collapse of Israel's autonomy. The judges are no more devout than the kings; Gideon anticipates the steady decay of piety among the leaders of Israel by first denying the power the people want to give him but then taking their gold from them and worshiping it.

So Moses is not alone at the horns of this dilemma. But he is among the few who use power wisely, with integrity and humility--who don't take people's donkeys just because they can but who take the people under their care safely to where God wants them taken. There are perks that come with power, to be sure--just take a look at Moses' shiny face--but God will be the judge of all who take power, and all who take it too far.

The Fortnight So Nice We're Doing It Twice

Every time we stumble upon a topic here at Strangely Dim that stimulates our imagination enough to generate an entire fortnight's worth of material, I get really excited. So you might imagine how excited I am to announce that Lisa and I are going to attempt the virtually impossible: two back-to-back fortnights on the theme of donkey tales from the Bible.

This project has been a modest dream of mine since the unveiling of the Likewise Books logo:

 

And in fact we toyed with the idea in a line description that accompanies every Likewise book. That line description inaugurated the first fortnight of donkey tales; I thought it would be appropriate for this second fortnight to draw from the two samplers we created for the line.

The first sampler featured five books--Flirting with Monasticism, Practical Justice, Sacred Travels, The New Friars and Blessed Are the Uncool. The latest sampler features one book that's now in print--Becoming the Answer to Our Prayers--and two books that are forthcoming: The Green Revolution and Love Is an Orientation. The introduction tethers these various books on diverse topics to the overarching idea of our publishing program: that striving to live like Jesus in our everyday going and doing is a discipline of seeking wisdom in real time, something that we rely on one another to accomplish. Without further ado, then, here's the inaugural post to our second fortnight of donkey tales:

There's an unusual warning buried somewhere in the middle of the Bible: "Do not be like the horse or the mule."

It's ludicrous, isn't it? Why would anyone compare a human being to a donkey?

And yet, if the horseshoe fits . . .

Do not be like the horse or the mule,
which have no understanding
but must be controlled by bit and bridle. (Psalm 32:9)

There are days when we just can't figure out how to go anywhere or do anything without compromising our convictions--being less than who we were created to be, living less than fully in the way we were made to live. On days like that, being controlled by a bit and bridle doesn't sound so bad.

In fact, Jesus makes us an offer:

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light. (Matthew 11:28-30)

Likewise books are an exploration of the yoke offered us by Jesus. . . . We invite you to respond to the simultaneous challenge and promise in Jesus' words to another skeptical would-be follower: "Go and do likewise."

Do Donkeys Deceive?

On this Friday for our Donkey Tale, I attempt to answer the urgent and, I'm sure, much-debated-in-coffee-shops-everywhere question, "Do donkeys ever lie?"

Have you noticed that the number of daily polls increases exponentially during election time? Someone seems to think it's imperative that we know every single day whether McCain or Obama appears to be leading in votes, which of their wives has cuter shoes, which presidential/vice presidential team would be most likely to win a bowling match if they squared off, etc., etc., etc. I know I can hardly face the day without knowing what the public thinks about McCain's tie choice when he was campaigning in Boise.

So, knowing you must feel the same way, I thought a donkey poll would be fitting for our Fortnight of Donkey Tales. You can just let us know your vote with a comment (which means, of course, that this will be a mostly un-anonymous poll, but we might as well all know where we stand when it comes to our opinions of donkeys.) So, here you go:

Do donkeys ever deceive?

__ I wouldn't trust a donkey if my ice cream depended on it.

__ I would let a donkey take care of my child for the day.

__ Why are we talking about donkeys so much?

While you're voting, here's something I know--without even polling you--that we'd all agree on: the usefulness of donkeys. The donkey references in the Bible clearly show donkeys being used to carry people, food and supplies for long trips. They saved people from having to do all the walking and carrying themselves, which would have made the already-tedious journeys even more long and tedious, and sometimes even impossible. As far as transportation went, donkeys seem to be the "jets" of the Old Testament. They get you there in half the time but cost you quite a bit of money.

Donkeys, then, are clearly useful, but are they ever deceptive? I'll give you my opinion (this is your cue to stop reading and vote if you haven't done so yet). Allow me to turn your attention to not one but two Old Testament passages: Joshua 9 and 2 Samuel 16:1-4.

In Joshua we find the Israelites defeating--and destroying--the nations around them as the Lord makes them victorious. By Joshua 9, they've gained quite a reputation for themselves. At this point, their neighbors, the Gibeonites, are terrified that they'll be the next victims, so they concoct a little plan to secure their safety:

They went as a delegation whose donkeys were loaded with worn-out sacks and old wineskins, cracked and mended. The men put worn and patched sandals on their feet and wore old clothes. All the bread of their food supply was dry and moldy. Then they went to Joshua in the camp at Gilgal and said to him and the men of Israel, "We have come from a distant country; make a treaty with us."

Tricky, huh? The Israelites, being as smart as, well, donkeys, buy it. They fail to seek the Lord and agree to make a treaty with the Gibeonites, which eventually contributes to the Israelites' downfall, disobedience and exile.

Move ahead some years to David in 2 Samuel 16. As usual, he's running from an enemy--this time his own son Absalom, who's trying to steal David's throne. At one point in his running, he comes upon Ziba, the steward of Saul's disabled grandson Mephibosheth (we'll call him "Bo" for short), whom David loves like a son:

[Ziba] had a string of donkeys saddled and loaded with two hundred loaves of bread, a hundred cakes of raisins, a hundred cakes of figs and a skin of wine. . . . [He said to David,] "The donkeys are for the king's household to ride on, the bread and fruit are for the men to eat, and the wine is to refresh those who become exhausted in the desert."

Nice, huh? Touching. Thoughtful. When David asks where Bo is, Ziba says he stayed behind in hopes that the kingdom would be taken from David and restored to Saul's family line. David, feeling betrayed by Bo, tells Ziba that he can have everything that belongs to Bo. End of story? No.

In 2 Samuel 19, when David and Bo next see each other, Bo reveals his side of the story: "Ziba my servant betrayed me. And he has slandered your servant to my lord the king."

Apparently, David doesn't have time to decide who to believe (he is, after all, running for his life and trying to regain his kingdom), so he tells Bo to divide what he has with Ziba. But in the honesty poll for Ziba and Bo, Bo gets my vote; he and David's relationship as described in earlier passages seems too solid for Bo to all of a sudden betray David. (We'll save that poll for another day.)

So there you go. Two Old Testament stories in which donkeys--something useful and good--are used to deceive. And though I haven't seen a donkey in person yet this year, these stories feel like my life. Every day I'm confronted with images and words that sound good, look good--and maybe even are good in some circumstances--but that ultimately tell me something deceptive about who I am, or who I should be. And I, like the Israelites, am quick to believe them and forget who I belong to; like David, I'm quick to forget who's been loyal and truthful to me consistently.

Here's what I believe, no matter what the polls say: God is the source of all truth. So if a donkey comes to your door, be discerning. Be slow to believe what it says (because we all know, without taking a poll, that donkeys for sure can talk!), and let the Spirit's still, small voice within speak to you over the braying.

Donkeys, Rabbits and Leaps of Faith

Today's entry in the Fortnight of Donkey Tales follows up on our ongoing competition, "Rabbit."

Earlier in our Fortnight of Donkey Tales, Lisa established that, according to the Levitical law, eating donkeys is a no-no. Today we find that eating rabbits is likewise unacceptable.

You may eat any animal that has a split hoof completely divided and that chews the cud. . . . The rabbit, though it chews the cud, does not have a split hoof; it is unclean for you. (Leviticus 11:3, 6)

The donkey, though not explicitly present in Leviticus 11, is implicitly included. Like rabbits, donkeys don't have split hooves, and so observant Jews don't eat them. So be it.

It's interesting to me that Leviticus articulates all kinds of unacceptable foods with only the barest of rationales. Followers of kosher laws are left to wonder what makes an unsplit hoof so unacceptable, or what makes chewing the cud so appealing. Some cite health reasons, while others argue that modern food storage and preparation makes any health concerns obsolete. Some cite utilitarian reasons, such as the relative cost of feeding pigs versus their provision of human food, for example, or the better use of camels as beasts of burden rather than lunch and dinner. But these folks are countered once again by the question of obsolescence: if I don't need a donkey to get me from point A to point B anymore, why can't I just eat it?

The short answer, say observant Jews, is "because the Torah says so. . . . We show our obedience to G-d by following these laws even though we do not know the reason." That argument itself sounds anachronistic; we live in the age of reason and in a world of democracy, in which laws are changed whenever it becomes expedient or presumably profitable to do so. But it's possible that, among its many other cultural benefits, such defiance of convenience or comfort or even "enlightenment" is one of the more important offerings of a religion that is bound by its holy book. We are invited by God into a world made up not of mechanistic rules and cause-effect logic but of faith and trust and dynamic leaps of faith.

Leaps of faith bring to mind snake handling and job quitting and other such blind acts of radical and even absurd behavior in the name of God. But Soren Kierkegaard describes the leap of faith primarily as a check against the hubris of human rationalism. To Abraham--who assumes first that God can't override the conventions of nature regarding childbirth and then that this one child must be protected at all costs from all harm so that he can deliver on God's promise--God says, "Sacrifice your son." And so Abraham must chasten his enlightenment by practicing obedience. Even then he assumes, according to the letter to the Hebrews, "that God could raise the dead"--a logic that God once again defies in favor of relationship, to Abraham's great relief.

The axiom "Laws are meant to be broken" is often a helpful check against the ritualistic assumption that laws are meant to be slavishly followed. But in an age in which people rationalize whatever decisions seem right in their own eyes, such self-serving impulses can be indulged to the point that laws are enacted that are clearly unjust and so clearly in defiance of the will of God. Such an age is divided, by the rules of cold logic, between the eaters and the eaten. God looks down on such an age and tells us instead to trust him, to obey him--to look where he leaps, and to go and do likewise.

Rabbit!

Well, Dave happens to be out of town for a work retreat, which is the only reason I won our Strangely Dim rabbit contest of being the first to post the word on the first of the month. I don't even remember the last time I won. Not that I'm bitter about it. But it feels good to be the winner once again.

Also, on this day of, um, mentioning rabbits (I'm not sure I'd say we celebrate them), I'd like to give a shout-out to South Dakota State University, whose esteemed mascot, I just learned, is, in fact, the jackrabbit (though they apparently like to think of themselves as the killer rabbits). To the jackrabbits, and to all of you, happy October.