1 Corinthians 10:1-13                                                       

Luke 13:1-9

“We dance round in a ring and suppose, But the secret sits in the center and knows.” – Robert Frost

 I’ve been thinking during my Lenten prayers about how much time I spend on Church and how little time I spend on God. How much time, to use Robert Frost’s marvelous image, I spend dancing round in a ring and how little I spend trying to sit with the secret in the center which is God.

If I made a pie chart, God would be just a little tiny sliver. Of course, Church is my job. But I expect it’s the same for you: that sometimes it seems as though for all the Church stuff – the meetings, the planning, the projects, even the liturgy each Sunday – God gets lost. And though God needs Church – Jesus called together disciples in order to spread the Gospel – Church is nothing except as it helps us relate to God. So let’s this morning spend a little time sitting with God, because that’s what the readings are all about.

One of the things we discover about God, if we spend even a little time sitting with his secret, is that we can’t pin him down; his very nature is to remain “secret,” ultimate, beyond us. The story of Moses and the burning bush is the great account in the Bible of God’s ultimate mysteriousness. Moses is wandering in the wilderness of Sinai. He’s been defeated in his attempt to lead his people back in Egypt. And something catches his attention.

The story says it’s an angel, appearing to him in the midst of a bush that burns but is not consumed. But of course those are just images. What they try to convey is beyond their grasp, as it always is when we humans try to talk about God. Everything around us, if we stop to notice, is a burning bush, an angel of God. Everything is full of wonder and mystery, beckoning us to step aside. In everything, God is calling out to us.

The Catechesis of the Good Shepherd is built on this realization. As you noticed in the presentation this morning, the Catechesis doesn’t give children “facts” about God to memorize or “get right.” It offers presentations that disclose something about God, that beckon or invite, and about which the children are asked to “wonder.” Their wondering leads them to discover truths about God, leads them into the secrecy of God.

The God whom Moses encounters in the burning bush – the God whom we encounter when we take time and space to wonder about the beckoning mysteries of life – has some special characteristics. First, as we might put it, he’s a God with a past. The God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob – the God revealed through his actions in history, his presence with people in times of old. That’s why we read the Bible: so we get a sense of who God has been, because this will help us understand who God is now and will be in the future.

Second, this God is a God who listens to us and responds to what he hears and sees. He’s a living, interactive, “personal” God. God tells Moses that he has heard the cries of the enslaved and suffering Hebrews and has come to deliver them. Now this God doesn’t do his delivering by magic, reaching down some heavenly hand. He works through people. In the Exodus story, he works through Moses. In the presentation on the Eucharistic Presence, the children are learning that God works through them.

God works through us too. But like Moses, we always want to know up front how God is going to work. We want proof and guarantees. “I want to know your name,” says Moses to God. Here we need to name what we’re dealing with: idolatry. Idols are things made by humans – not just statues of gods, but anything in which we put our ultimate trust that is less than God: money, medicine, government, military might, human intelligence, science, the Church.

Moses wants to learn God’s name, which meant in the thought of the day, to gain control of God. He wants to turn God into an idol in other words, so that he can be assured of just how God is going to work through him. But God works this wonderful little trick, preserving his ultimate secret. My name, God says is I AM (YHWH). In other words, I will be present with you as I work through you, but I will remain ultimately beyond you – because otherwise I wouldn’t be God.

And that is how God works with us. In the gospel reading, people are asking Jesus why bad things happen to good people. Do you see how that’s basically an idolatrous question? It’s assuming that we, what is bad or good in our personal terms, are the ultimate standard of badness and goodness – in effect that we are God. And Jesus, like God in the burning bush story, flips that idolatrous question around. Don’t make yourself the center of the universe, he says. I am the center. So your job is to repent, clean up your own life, do justice, bear fruit for the kingdom. Stop worrying about yourself and start thinking about God or you will surely perish.

I urge you to take the time to follow our on-line Lenten study project on “Belief in an Age of Skepticism.” It’s been quite fascinating, the reactions and resistances people have had. Really, I think, it all comes down to what we’ve been talking about. “Skepticism,” in all its various forms, is simply an expression of people wanting a God to suit themselves, wanting a life that puts themselves at the center. “Belief” is simply accepting the reality that life isn’t like that. That however much we wish it otherwise, we remain dancing round in a circle while God sits ultimately secret in the center.

 Except . . . there is this connection between circle and center: Jesus Christ. Jesus who is both “in on the secret” and, with us, out in the circle. He it is who came to reconcile the secret and the circle, to reconcile us to God as our center. Lent is a time to reflect on that reconciliation, to turn from our idolatries and re-center ourselves on God through the forgiveness of Jesus Christ.

Contains information about various Lenten opportunities, as well as an introduction to the online discussion series.

Romans 10:8b-13                                                                              

Luke 4:1-13

So we’re in the desert this morning, the wilderness. This isn’t a pleasure trip to Tucson for winter vacation week. We’re not here to soak up some sun. This is where there’s nothing to eat, no shelter, no one to keep us company. We’re alone, insecure, beset by fears. We talk about “ah, ha!” mountaintop experiences. Well, we also know desert experiences, don’t we? Times when everything that gives life meaning and makes us feel secure deserts us. Times when we feel utterly alone, beset by fears. This is such a place, such a time. It’s no vacation.

And along comes the devil, the tempter. Don’t expect a fellow in a red suit with cloven hooves and a tail. He’s more subtle than that. He presents himself, very likely, as your own best friend. “Oh, come on,” he says, if you’re an alcoholic, “just a little drink; just this one time. How can it hurt?” Or maybe it’s Internet sex: “This will take care of your loneliness. What’s the big deal?” Or drugs, or a credit card shopping spree. The devil is a resourceful fellow. And he knows your particular vulnerabilities.

These three temptations of Jesus in the wilderness are the classic ones. Looked at closely, they embrace all of the others. “Turn this stone into bread,” the devil says to Jesus. The temptation to satisfy our hunger, take care of our loneliness, quell our fear, by “things.” This is the most obvious temptation, and really it rules our lives today. It’s what the American way of life has come down to. Feeling down? Go out and buy. You can purchase your way to happiness. Or drink your way, or drug your way, or sex your way, or – so many variations. “Things.” And it works for a little while, maybe. But only a little while. The more we seek to satisfy ourselves with things, the more things we need to gain satisfaction for even that little while. So Jesus said no to the devil’s first temptation, quoting Scripture: “One does not live by bread alone.” St. Matthew’s version adds the end of that quote, “but by every word that goes forth from the mouth of God.”

But the devil is back at us, this time with the temptation of power: In the classic version, power over “all the kingdoms of the world, all their glory and authority.” But there are, again, all sorts of variations on this theme. And we know them in our lives. You’re a kid in middle school or high school (which God knows is a desert, a wild and scary place and time of life), not the captain of the football team, the head cheerleader, the valedictorian. But you can experience the thrill of power by picking on some kid who’s farther down the line than you. Bullying, we call it – and it doesn’t just happen in schools; nations bully, politicians bully, superiors at work bully.

Praying with this gospel, I realized that the temptation of power plays a subtle role in my own life – subtle, but very destructive. I want power over what might be called the realm of ideas. I want to “put it all together” and understand everything, look God squarely in the face. Then I can rest secure. I fear not knowing, not being able to explain. So there’s that kind of power too – and the kinds of power that come with popularity, with youth, with health, with winning, with making money, with getting promotions. On and on. But, like the temptation of “things,” power in the end never satisfies. You always need more. Think of dictators, American politicians endlessly seeking reelection.

Jesus had an interesting response to the devil’s temptation of power, didn’t he? He chose powerlessness. He chose to give power only to God. That led him, of course, to the Cross. The Cross is the symbol of our ultimate powerlessness, our ultimate call to sacrifice and surrender. And paradoxically, in this very powerlessness of human beings is revealed the power of God.

So the third temptation: putting God to the test. Maybe my temptation of wanting to put everything together, wanting ultimate understanding, really belongs here. This is the temptation of certainty. Astrology is a simple example: if we can only read the stars, we will know exactly what our day and indeed our life holds and be able to take control of it. Religious fundamentalism is another example: if we can point to this line in the Bible, this absolute doctrine or discipline of the Church, then we’re saved from insecurity. Follow the directions, God will save you. Except “testing” isn’t really about God saving us; it’s about gaining control to save ourselves.

And the trouble, again, is that life and God don’t work that way. If we reduce God and religion to a matter of “tests” – of simple blacks and whites – very soon we find that they fail us. We try to take control, but ultimately life is beyond our control. People in the gospels are always saying to Jesus, tell us who you are, tell us what your authority is, tell us who sent you. His great opponents, the Pharisees, were all about a religion of rules, rules to gain control. And Jesus is always responding, follow me. God is a follow me God, not a test answer. And religion can’t teach to the test; it can only equip for the journey. We discover God’s presence as we move forward in life, with faith, with hope, with love.

Which is exactly what Jesus discovers, when he turns the devil away for the third time. The very next verse of Luke’s gospel after the passage appointed for this morning says, “Then Jesus, filled with the power of the Spirit, returned to Galilee.” Filled with God, in other words. Matthew’s gospel has a variation of this that I find helpful: “Then the devil left him, and suddenly angels came and waited on him.” In other words, life really isn’t a desert, a wilderness. We’re not really all alone, on our own. God’s Spirit, God’s angels, are there all along. These desert times are only to show us this truth, and to strengthen us in our journey with Jesus.

Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21                                                       

 Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

 We celebrate today two things that are difficult for us: sin and mortality. I remember being on the search committee for a new priest, back before I was ordained myself. We were going through resumes the bishop had sent us and we got to Fr. So-and-So’s. “Discard!” announced a woman on the committee immediately. “I went to a service at his church and he preached on sin.” Moral: don’t talk about sin if you want to get ahead, even in the Church, certainly not in the rest of life.

Mortality, too: who wants to talk about death, particularly their own? Obituaries always note how someone died after a “long struggle” or a “long battle” with whatever disease carried them off. Death is the enemy. Hospitals and hospices are partly places where we hide away the dying so they won’t spoil things for the living. We’ve come a long ways from our ancestors, who prayed in the Great Litany to be delivered from “dying suddenly and unprepared” and saw this life in terms of preparation for death.

I hope you will all try out our on-line Lenten study series, available on our Website. Timothy Keller, around whose book The Reason for God the series is built, makes an interesting observation. In our secular society, he says, our worth is weighed by our performance. This can be a matter of how much money we make, what positions we hold, what honors we amass over our lifetimes, our intellectual or athletic abilities and so on. But we also look on morality as a matter of performance: how “good” are we, how close to “perfection” do we manage to come? Like a bunch of people on moral Step Master machines. We make even virtue a matter of competition, winning and losing.

 Now the trouble with that way of looking at life – and let’s be honest, it’s the default mode for all of us – is that it turns salvation itself into another matter of performance. Can I save myself if I only try harder? So sin and death become failures to perform and we try to deny or minimize them to others and even to ourselves. “Oh, I’m not really very sinful,” we say to ourselves – “and if I’ve made mistakes, well, they’re no worse than anyone else’s.” And, “oh, maybe I’m going to die someday, but let’s not be morbid and think about it. After all, when it comes God’s going to recognize that I’ve tried hard to be good – well, most of the time – and he’s not a judgmental God, so he’ll let me into heaven.”

Now what Tim Keller points out is that such a view robs life of its moral seriousness. “In the Christian understanding, Jesus does not tell us how to live so we can merit salvation. Rather, he comes to forgive and save us through his life and death in our place. God’s grace does not come to people who morally outperform others, but to those who admit their failure to perform and who acknowledge their need for a Savior.”*

Something interesting happens when we embrace this understanding of salvation. It allows us to be honest and realistic about ourselves. We can reflect on our lives, “take a moral inventory” as they say in Alcoholics Anonymous, and look ourselves in the face, stains of sin and all. And we can truly confess that this is who we are. It’s very freeing. The burden of performance is suddenly lifted from our shoulders – a burden we could never discharge anyway, because we’re mere human beings, not gods.

The lifting of that burden brings a lightness and happiness to our lives. Think of people you know: who is the better friend to spend time with, the one who is always boasting of his achievements and justifying himself, or the one who is gentle and accepting of her imperfections and failures – and of yours?

But beyond that joy – and joy is exactly what this feeling is –shedding that burden of performance also paradoxically frees us to lead a more moral life. Think about the Lord’s Prayer, the prayer Jesus taught us as the template for all prayer, indeed for all life. Do we pray anywhere in it for greater moral performance and perfection? I don’t think so! Indeed, in the parable of the tax collector and the Pharisee Jesus condemns just such prayer. No, in the Lord’s Prayer the only real reference to morality is in our request that we may forgive others as we are forgiven. Forgiveness is the moral perfection that Jesus urges on us – not a matter of performance at all, but of dealing with nonperformance. Freed of the burden of performing like gods, we can become forgiving, giving, loving, hoping and trusting human beings. And as such, we can begin to regard death not as the ultimate enemy, but as a mysterious friend.

So, “remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” Not a terrible thing, but a blessing. Yes, we are sinners. Yes, we are mortal. But yes and yes again, Jesus Christ came to save us where we cannot save ourselves. Jesus Christ came to triumph over death, that we might no longer fear its sting.

___________

*Timothy Keller, The Reason for God: Belief in an Age of Skepticism (New York: Riverhead Books, 2008), pp. 19-20.

About Keller and the book. We picked Keller’s book partly for convenience (the number of chapters fit the number of weeks), partly by happenstance (Holy Cross Vicar John McCausland ran across the book on a table at the monastery he was visiting on retreat), and partly because Keller has an interesting story and an outlook that will be a little different from what Episcopalians may be used to. Tim Keller is a Presbyterian who was sent to start a church in New York City in the late 1980s, especially to appeal to urbanites in their twenties and thirties — a notoriously unchurched group. Today, Redeemer Presbyterian Church has almost 6,000 members meeting in several locations and has spawned daughter churches affiliated with various denominations in cities around the world. Newsweek has called Keller “C.S. Lewis for the twenty-first century.”

Keller espouses what he calls orthodox Christian beliefs and his approach is to meet head-on the doubts he hears people expressing about God, Christianity and the Church, and to address these doubts respectfully, honestly and reasonably. He doesn’t claim to be either conservative or liberal, Democrat or Republican. Indeed, he is concerned about the growth both of the skeptical secular left and the dogmatic religious right. He hopes that his approach to faith will offer people a firm center that falls into neither of these camps.

In any case, the purpose of our discussion will not be to endorse or defend what Tim Keller says, but to use it as a point of departure for our own thoughts, questions and conversation. We hope this will be interesting and enlightening for you. We particularly hope that we’ll pick up some participants who are unchurched “doubters” — who may have points to make that Keller’s book doesn’t touch. As we go along, if there are ways to make our experiment better, please let us know!

We’ll try to get the posting for each chapter up at the beginning of the week. The chapter titles for the “doubt” series are: 1. There Can’t Be Just One True Religion, 2. How Could a Good God Allow Suffering?, 3. Christianity is a Straitjacket, 4. The Church is Responsible for So Much Injustice, 5. How Can a Loving God Send People to Hell?, 6. Science Has Disproved Christianity, and 7. You Can’t Take the Bible Literally. For the “faith” series: 8. The Clues of God, 9. The Knowledge of God, 10. The Problem of Sin, 11. Religion and the Gospel, 12. The (True) Story of the Cross, 13. The Reality of the Resurrection, and 14. The Dance of God.

“Religion has led to untold strife, division, and conflict. For anyone to insist that they have ‘the truth,’ as religions require you to, means the world will never know peace.”

Religious relativism. Tim Keller says that the greatest source of skepticism about religion that he finds among young adults boils down to the enormous pluralism and diversity of religions around us today. Whether in the news about the Holy Land, radical Islam, or zealous religious sects here at home, people are fearful of religion’s exclusivist claims. They’re not about to get involved with something that will set them against their neighbors — or members of their own family. Better to hold back, let everyone believe what they want, keep spirituality private, personal and relative, “suspend” belief — at least in any organized, institutional religion, any doctrines or dogmas.

“Not believing” is a form of believing. Keller deals with this attitude first by admitting the obvious, that religions — including Christianity — have been responsible for much violence through history and even today. But he points out that so have overtly secularist, nonreligious movements like communism and fascism.  As such movements show us, “not believing” is in fact a religious stance, indeed a kind of “doctrine.” It holds a specific view of God, which is touted as superior and more enlightened than the beliefs of most major religions. So the proponents of this view do the very thing they forbid in others.” Moreover, those who hold these views can be as condemning and intolerant of the religious as the religious are of them. Think only of the “culture wars” that have divided America.

Rebutting the claims of religious relativists. One argument the “religious relativists” (let’s use that label for these skeptics) advance is that, “each religion sees part of spiritual truth, but none can see the whole truth.” Another argument is that “religious belief is too culturally and historically conditioned to be ‘truth’.” Keller points out, however, that again these statements presume that those making them have a superior vantage point, seeing more “truth” than the orthodox religions and being themselves free of historical and cultural conditioning — neither of which is the case. In reality, Keller says, the religious relativists confine themselves in a very narrow and shallow belief world, centered on a self unconnected to transcendent community, unmoved by the great thoughts, life-changing experiences and community connections that commitment to orthodox religions offer. Modern consumerism, loss of ultimate meaning, rootlessness and selfishness are all fed by the feeling that no orthodox religion can claim a truth greater than an individual’s skepticism. Religious relativism, Keller contends, is simply another form of religion — and a demonstrably inferior one.

What is religion? How can he say this? Here’s his argument: “What is religion then? It is a set of beliefs that explain what life is all about, who we are, and the most important things that juman beings should spend their time doing.” So understood, “faith in some view of the world and human nature informs everyone’s life.” So the question really is, what religion is “the best.”

The case for Christianity. Keller concludes his dissection of the religious relativists’ arguments by putting forth his own case: “Christianity can save the world.” “Christianity has within itself remarkable power to explain and expunge the divisive tendencies within the human heart.” Believing that all humans are made in the image of God, Christianity provides a basis for respecting others regardless of their beliefs. Understanding that everyone is sinful,”leads Christians to expect believers will be worse in practice than their orthodox beliefs should make them. So there will be plenty of ground for respectful cooperation.”

But Christianity, says Keller, is not ultimately about living a moral life. “God’s grace does not come to people who morally outperform others, but to those who admit their failure to perform and who acknowledge their need for a Savior.” “The real question, then, is which fundamental, unprovable faith commitments will lead their believers to be the most loving and receptive to those whith whom they differ? Which set of unavoidably exclusive beliefs will lead us to humble, peace-loving behavior?” For all the failures and shortcomings of Christians and the Christian Church, the fact that Christianity has at its heart Jesus Christ, “a man who died for his enemies, praying for their forgiveness,” means that it “offers the strongest possible resource for practicing sacrificial service, generosity, and peacemaking.”

Some questions to consider:

1. Thinking of people you know, maybe yourself, do you think Keller is right that “religious relativism” is a major reason why people doubt or are skeptical of the claims of Christianity?
2. Do you think Keller makes a good argument for religious relativism being itself a religion?
3. What do you see as problems with the kind of beliefs held skeptics of the sort Keller is talking about?
4. Do you agree with Keller that Christianity provides a better belief basis for living in the world today? Why? Why not?
5. Share this posting with someone you know who would be inclined to disagree with you. What are their reactions? (Invite them to post these directly, or repeat them yourself.)

2 Corinthians 3:12-4:2                                                      

Luke 9:28-43

Since, then, we have such a hope, we act with great boldness, not like Moses, who put a veil over his face to keep the people of Israel from gazing [on God’s glory]. — 2 Corinthians 3:12

This is one of the central themes in the New Testament, indeed in Christianity as a religion: that with Jesus Christ no longer is God veiled, a terrible presence before whom we can only cringe in fear, whom we  can only approach indirectly, through observing a code of complex rules and through the rituals of a sacred priesthood. No, our God is the God revealed in Jesus, a human being like ourselves. Jesus who knows our weakness, our doubts, our confusion, our sins. But Jesus who has saved us from ourselves, who loves us and calls us to be with him.

It is a very powerful idea. We make a mistake if we treat it as simply a contrast between Judaism and Christianity. The contrast between the veiled God and the transparent God runs through all religions. Let me read you these words by the most prominent Roman Catholic liturgical scholar in America today, a Jesuit named John Baldovin who teaches at Boston College:

To put it simply (and I hope not over-simply) religious folk can be divided into two basically opposed groups which opt for either “control” or “freedom” as the basis for religious life. What is Christian religious faith about? Is it about bringing basically sinful people into conformity with God’s very demanding will for the world? Such a God is loving to be sure – but Gods love has very definite limits. Or is it about offering people a vision of God’s world, the reign of God as proclaimed by Jesus – a vision which serves more as an invitation than a threat? In other words, are Scripture and Tradition vehicles for limiting and controlling our access to God or are they inspirations of a pattern of relating to God which must be renewed in every age and place and which can only be offered to human beings, never imposed upon them?*

I don’t know about you, but for me the last few Sundays at Holy Cross have been some of the most remarkable in the twelve years I’ve been here. It began with Charles LaFond’s homily three weeks ago in which he likened an epiphany – the name of this season which today brings to a close (the Greek word means “manifestation” or “showing forth”) – to God turning on a light bulb, God saying “yes” to us, God’s people. God, said Charles, is always turning on light bulbs, always saying yes. That’s his nature; he’s that kind of God.

And then two weeks ago we participated in a drama about God’s calling. (And “calling” is another form of light bulb turning on, of God saying yes to us.) God calling the prophet Jeremiah; God calling Jesus; God calling us. We talked about fear – how fear holds us back from responding to God. In many ways, to be honest, we’d rather have a veiled God than a Jesus God. If God is fearsome, we have an excuse for not responding – it’s too hard, it’s too scary, I don’t know enough, I’m not worthy. We saw in the gospel that day how the people in Jesus’s home town turned against him because it was too threatening to think that the home town boy, someone just like them, might be the Messiah, the one to actualize the reign of God in their midst.

And then last week, with the Bishop’s visitation. The message of the gospel was Jesus’s call to us to fish for people, to change human lives – including of course our own. “Put out into the deep,” Jesus calls us. “Do not be afraid.” The Bishop asked us what we’d need to “go fishing.” He asked us what held us back. I had invited him to open up his sermon, asking questions of us, letting us respond. He did, and you did a wonderful job with it. A year ago even, it would have been difficult. There would have been awkward silences. But we’ve come a long way, haven’t we, in putting aside our fear of real participation in worship – as opposed to being spectators of a performance done by others.

Last week we moved the chairs into the open, circular pattern around the Altar and Lectern. We’ll keep them that way during Lent because it will facilitate some Atrium presentations we’ll be doing on some of the Sundays in Lent. I know some of you don’t like this seating arrangement. I still hear people say that they want to look at me, not at each other. But you know, it’s something I think we need to work on. It has to do with what Fr. Baldovin was talking about. We are the people of God – all of us, not just a few ordained folks. We are the celebrants of this Eucharist – not just me, the priest. This Holy Communion is a communion horizontally with one another, all in the great circle around the Table, not just vertically with a veiled God somewhere up in the sky. It’s important that our worship show this, because how we worship shapes how we live.

So now Epiphany ends – this season of marvelous light bulb turnings on, of hearing God say yes to us, of hearing God’s call. And in the gospel story of the Transfiguration, we go back down the mountain to resume our journey to Jerusalem, to the Cross. Luke’s account of the Transfiguration is telling, because no sooner do the disciples get back down that they fail in their mission; they’re unable to cast out a demon from a sick child. It was all mountaintop moment for them, no carry through to the challenges of real life.

And what about us? I hope as you reflect on your life this Lent, as you take on disciplines that will help you repent and renew, you will not just work on dieting and exercise and bringing more food for the pantry – good as all those things may be. I hope you will think about your fears. We all have them, the things that hold us back from being part of the dance of God. Give them up, these fears. Take off the veil you’ve put on God. As St. Paul wrote to the Corinthians, found your life on hope and “act with great boldness.” If you do, you will experience the love and power of Jesus Christ – you will be ready for Easter.

_________

* John F. Baldovin, S.J., “The Changing World of Liturgy,” Anglican Theological Review, Winter 2000, Vol. 82, No. 1, p. 67.

As with Doubt 1, Keller’s response essentially is that people who raise this problem are again looking at things from their own personal perspective rather than trying to imagine them from the perspective of God. Just because “evil appears pointless to me” doesn’t mean it is pointless. Indeed, if there is no God — if reality is just the natural order — there really can be no such things as good or evil. These are moral values, and the natural order is valueless. A coyote kills a squirrel: evolution in the natural order advances with the survival of the fittest; this is neither good nor bad, but just is. (Actually, one can say it is good, but more on that later.) The existence of our human capacity and need to classify things as good or bad, says Keller, is thus actually an argument for God. (Anyone want to challenge this???)

Having said this, Keller goes on to say that there are very good reasons why God would allow evil and suffering in his Creation. Dealing with evil and suffering creates character, deepens us as human beings, is the basis for virtues like patience, generosity, hope, and love. We might illustrate with the example of someone born to great wealth, personal beauty and health. She lives in a gated community, is waited on by servants, surrounded by admirers, has no suffering and encounters no evil. (The story of the Buddha as a protected young prince comes to mind, if you know this.) Can this person really love? Can this person really relate to someone who suffers? Compare any of the saints, for instance modern ones like Mother Teresa or Martin Luther King. Who they were was a product of their embrace of suffering, evil and danger, in themselves and for others.

The supreme example of how suffering perfects us, says Keller, is of course Jesus. In Jesus, says orthodox Christian thought, God himself embraced suffering and submitted himself to evil, including the symbolic highest suffering and evil of crucifixion without just cause. In that very embrace, Jesus overcame evil, as symbolized by the Resurrection. The ultimate salvation of the world, when Christ comes again, is not in Christian theology a lifting out of suffering and evil, but instead heaven descending to earth to transform all that the earth has suffered into a “resurrection” and transformation — a wholeness achieved through suffering, not by erasing it. In Christ, God identifies with our suffering, takes it unto himself, and overcomes it by transcending it. His doing so includes an invitation for us to “take up our crosses” and follow him, not wishing away our struggles, but transforming them.

A summary like this, and indeed even the whole chapter in Keller’s book, cannot convey the richness of the experience and thought that lie behind it. Indeed, it can seem too pat and unfeeling for those who are in the midst of serious suffering and beset by evil beyond their control. The mystery of God and God’s love is deeply bound up in the mystery of suffering and evil. This paradox occupies much of the Bible and has drawn many responses from theologians through the ages. Perhaps the best way to begin to understand what Keller is driving at, however, is simply to consider how bland and empty in the end the modern dream of a suffering free life proves to be — gated communities, appliances to all the work, miracle diets and cosmetics to make us beautiful, etc. Those who really suffer today — in Africa, in Haiti — are those with the most intense and vivid Christian faith. One thing a Christian community can offer is companionship in suffering — not an explanation that wipes away, but a presence that transforms. In other words, precisely what Christ offered in his life and his death.

Post-modern people like us, Keller says, think of freedom as meaning our personal, individual liberty to believe whatever we find congenial. “True freedom is freedom to create your own meaning and purpose.” But, again, this definition is self-defeating or self-limiting. “In this view, ‘freedom’ means that there is no overarching purpose for which we were created. If there were, we would be obligated to conform to it and fulfill it, and that is limiting.” This definition of freedom leaves us alone, with no greater purpose or meaning than ourselves. “Truth” becomes just a personal power play — my truth against yours. If our society today is based on this definition of truth, well, this is just our power play — what works for us in asserting our interests over against those of, for example, Moslems in Central Asia.

Reality is that “Every account of justice and reason is embedded in a set of some particular beliefs about the maning of human life that is not shared with everyone. The idea of a totally inclusive community is, therefore, an illusion.” The question then becomes, says Keller, ”Which community has beliefs that lead its members to treat persons in other communities with lvoe and respect — to serve them and meet their needs? Which community’s beliefs lead it to demonize and atttack those who violate thier boundaries rather than trating them with kndness, humility and winsomeness? We should criticize Christians when they are condemning and ungracious to unbelievers. But we should not criticize churches when they maintain standards for membership in accord with their beliefs. Every community must do the same.”

Having established this basis for his argument, Keller then goes on to make the case that Christianity has in fact been uniquely able, among the great belief systems of history, to accommodate itself graciously to a variety of cultures, to assimilate new insights and discoveries, and to deal with social change while maintaining its essential integrity. Around the core teachings (the Creeds, the Lord’s Prayer, the Ten Commandments) to which all forms of Christianity are committed there is great freedom as to how to express and interpret these “absolutes” (again, “absolute” seems a less than ideal choice of word here). Christianity is not just Western, not limited racially or culturally; it has changed vastly over the centuries and continues to display great vitality as it spreads and grows in places like Africa and China.

Finally, Keller contends that disciplines and constraints actually liberate us “when they fit with the reality of our nature and capacities.” “Freedom is not so much the absence of restrictions as finding the right ones, the liberating restrictions.” A good example (not Keller’s) might be marriage. The marriage covenant is not based on performance, like a dating relationship. It therefore allows its partners to be who they are and to be loved as such; out of that love comes growth and, ultimately, lovability. Keller concludes by saying that love is the ultimate freedom, while at the same time it is the loss of all other freedoms. He makes the beautiful point that in becoming human in Jesus Christ, God surrendered the freedoms of invulnerability to suffering and death. God did that by submitting to the greater freedom that is love.