We had just gone to war the last time we heard these readings. On March 23, 2003, the third Sunday in the season of Lent, we had been at war for almost four days. Today, three years later, there seems to be no peace in sight.
Friday I saw a film about another war. The film – Joyeaux Noel – is a dramatization of the Christmas Truce – the one-day truce that occurred at several places on the World War I front at Christmas in 1914. The film was remarkable in more ways than I have time to tell, and I don’t want to spoil it for you, as I highly recommend it.
Joyeaux Noel tells the story of three groups of men – some of them still just boys – from France, Germany and Scotland. We see them as war is declared and they are called to fight. We see them kill, we see them die, we see acts of courage and acts of compassion. These men are living, fighting and dying in three trenches spaced less than 100 yards apart. The no-man’s land between them is about the size of a football field. A cat whose home is the farm where this little piece of the war is being fought wanders between the camps, being fed, petted and claimed by all the men.
Many images from this film will stay in my mind, but as the story rolled along, three things made a significant impression on me. The first thing that struck me about the film was how difficult it was for me to keep the nationalities of the men straight in my head, despite their distinctive uniforms and their subtitled language.
The second thing that will remain in my heart was the experience of watching peace break out between the men – triggered by one act of bravery and built in one tentative step after another.
The third indelible impression was the anger of the men of the high command on all three sides when they learned of this treasonous peace. These senior officers knew only too well that men who have shared what they have – drink, cigarettes, stories, ;pictures of their loved ones, songs and prayer – have trouble demonizing each other and therefore have great difficulty killing each other.
On Christmas morning, as the truce was ending, one soldier said to another – “It’s even more absurd to die tomorrow than it was to die yesterday.”
Three years ago, the last time we heard these readings, I spoke at some length about the reasons for the money-changers and the livestock sellers to be in the temple. Animals were required for the sacrifices that were a principal part of worship, and the law required that the annual temple tax paid by every adult male could only be paid in the silver coins of Tyre. Money-changers were to be found in busy locations throughout the city. So, didn’t it make good sense to have them in the courtyard of the temple? Many animals were slaughtered every day in the temple.
So didn’t it make good sense to have them in the courtyard of the temple? It made so much sense that I doubt anyone noticed when things shifted. I doubt there was a day when someone said, “Whoa! We’ve gone a few steps over the line!” I don’t think anyone noticed when the focus on the things of the world – the focus on maintaining the institution – began to take precedence over the focus on the sacred.
Then Jesus walked in. In the busiest season of the money-changers’ year. In the weeks prior to Passover when all adult males were in town to pay their temple tax. He noticed what was happening and had probably been happening for more years than people could remember. He noticed. And he got angry. He got very angry.
Jesus got angry, and good Christians over the centuries and down the generations
have used his anger and his violent actions that day to justify violence –
to justify killing in the name of Christ.
Through all these years, we’ve tended not to notice that Jesus’
actions were directed at the institution, the system, not the people. We’ve
tended not to notice that the structure of commerce was damaged, not the people
who came to sell and to worship and to live their lives.
Even so, I imagine that there are preachers in these United States who are using
Jesus’ righteous anger in today’s gospel portion as a parallel to
the war that’s been going on for three years. Today’s gospel is
frequently called “the cleansing of the Temple,” and I know that
many people style this war as the cleansing of Iraq. I imagine that today’s
gospel can be seen to give a glow of holiness to the devastation that is occurring
in the Middle East.
When did things shift for us? When did the sacred get lost in the profane? When did the institutions of the world we live in take precedence over the ultimate reality of the world that lives in God’s holiness? And what are we as Christians called to do about that question here and now, in our time?
Three years ago a colleague sent me a sermon preached by George Williamson, Jr, the pastor of Granville Baptist Church in Ohio and a long-time leader in the Baptist Peace Fellowship of North America. His words touched something in me and have stayed with me in these years. His words give me a measure of comfort and discomfort as I continue to struggle to find answers to the question of what we’re called to do.
He quotes from the 24th chapter of Matthew:
“And you will hear of wars and rumors of wars; see that you are not alarmed; for this must take place, but the end is not yet. For nation will rise against nation and kingdom against kingdom, and there will be famines and earthquakes in various places: all this is but the beginning of the birth pangs.”
Williamson points out that Machiavelli, who might be described as the first political scientist, said that the chief end of human government is to prepare for and to make war. He also said that no successful government would ever admit to such a thing. I think Machiavelli was probably right on both counts. Williamson also points out that Jesus tells us not to be alarmed at this. Jesus tells us that war, though it may be the secret end of government, is not the end of the world.
When I initially read those words, my first thought was that Jesus didn’t live in our time. Things are different now, I thought. The world is different now. And I am alarmed. I am alarmed at the thought that nuclear holocaust is a button push away. I am alarmed at the knowledge of people being killed as we speak and worship this morning. I am alarmed at the damage being done to our earth. I am alarmed, I am angry, and I am frustrated because there doesn’t seem to be a blessed thing I can do about it.
But Jesus, in the last week before his death, during another Passover week, knowing that his time is running out, tells us not to be alarmed. His behavior that week shows us that he is not alarmed. His behavior that week shows us a different way to respond to violence. As he approaches his death, Jesus chooses not to respond in violence to those who would do violence to him. His behavior and his words show us that his calling was to make a witness to God’s promise. His authority and serenity and confidence in the face of disaster point to his certain knowledge that God’s goodness is in charge of the world and will prevail – despite the flaws and failures of God’s creatures.
As Christians, that is also our calling. We are called to do the best we can
to bring peace into this world, but our primary duty is to love God. And loving
God means keeping our faces turned in expectation that God’s goodness
will prevail. The Greek word that we usually translate believe” is an
active word. The closest translation I can give you is “to faith in”.
To faith in—not simply to have a quiet, receptive and passive faith but
to actively and imaginatively direct our faith to God and to the healing of
the world. Faithing in – being faithful – bearing faithful witness
means living a life that shows by our lack of alarm that we do trust in God’s
goodness.
Bearing faithful witness also means that we act from that place of trust with
courage to participate in bringing peace to God’s world. Bearing faithful
witness means we are called to engage – to embrace – to be fully
part of this world we live in.
Our faithful witness may not bring an end to war. It hasn’t so far. Our faithful witness may not make a difference in the outer realities of this world. Our faithful witness may not bring down the powers that feed on violence – the systems and institutions that are nourished by blood - but our faithful witness to the ultimate reality of God’s promise will make a difference in the way we live every day of our lives. And God will gather every tiny morsel – every scrap – every particle of our faithful witness to become part of God’s peace – the peace which we have been promised and which will surely come.