As I’ve written before, violence seems to be something we love, maybe more than God. A great tension in our Scriptures is that we have passages that seem to affirm violence, i.e. the conquest of Canaan, or the book of Revelation, and those verses that affirm quests for peace and pacifism, i.e. the Sermon on the Mount, or Jesus’ response to violence at his arrest. The arguments are wide and varied on both sides of the argument. There are theologians on both sides, some who say you can’t be a Christian without being a pacifist and you others who say that though violence is a sad fact of our existence in a broken world, it is still a fact.
Either way, this conversation is not ending soon, nor will it be easy to find a resolution. Over the years, I’ve found myself moving around this argument. Just like most of us, I have held different beliefs and ideals. It’s not new, nor am I some unique soul who has had a change of worldview after a reality shattering experience. It’s healthy for us to grow and change as we encounter more of the world. In fact, I believe even Paul, that most stalwart defender of the faith, had similar ideas about how humans grow. “When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways.” (1 Corinthians 13:11) Most recently, that journey of growth has had to do with violence, and how violence plays a role in my life.
This last week, I had an encounter I had not expected. My wife is a minister in a DC-area congregation where she has been called to help cultivate an alternative worship service. During Lent, she has selected dates and planned some special prayer services to act as testbeds for this new alternative she is hoping to curate. Since I own a guitar (note: I did not say I “play” guitar, just that I own one) she asked me to lead the music. I don’t listen to much contemporary Christian music, and so I had to bone up, as it were. I created a couple of Pandora stations and hit YouTube hard trying to find some new stuff to play.
I was introduced to some new bands and songs, and was reintroduced to some old friends that I hadn’t heard from in a long time. Truthfully, it was hard to find music to fit the theme of the service. My wife had planned the service around worshiping the aspect of “caregiving” in our lives. The night was beautiful and spoke to the need for rest, growth, and renewal that we each experience in those seasons of caregiving. During my listening, however, there was a theme that seemed to run through a shocking amount of the music I heard.
There was a deep connection to God’s glory, God’s victory, and the destruction of opponents.
I was disturbed by these images as they came out of my earbuds. Imagery of a world where the Christian is attacked and needs God to come and defeat the “opponent” were frequent. Songs about battles and and warfare seemed to be extremely popular. And all of them were set to the most soothing of instrumental arrangements. Most lyrics paint a black and white world where there is a “good” and a “bad” with good being the victorious warrior. One song, set to an instrumental back drop of majestic major chords and swelling vocals spoke to God’s glorious destruction of all that hinders the singer.
It was a little weird
As I put this in context to the Gospel readings for last Sunday I feel a little uncomfortable. I mean, I remember singing songs, and preaching sermons, that communicated these exact things. Personally, I’m on a journey to find a faith that is big enough for the version of me from five years ago. However, I just can’t do these kind of violent images about God anymore. I’m not the only one talk about about this (there are two great posts here and here about Christianity and violence), and I’m sure I will not be the last. I’m also not naive enough to believe that my entire congregation believes the same way I do.
However, when I think of the Savior that talked about loving enemies, blessing the persecutors, and was finally killed by those who disagreed with him, it makes me ask questions about how we imagine glory. When we think of the glory due the Prince of Peace, do we imagine it as those Roman parades in genre movies?
Are there shiny armies with weapons and drums leading a chariot with Jesus waving to the crowd?
Does the King, whose crown is a crown of thorns, really fit that picture?
If not, how do we talk, and sing, about glory?
Our culture and context has generated images of glory for us. We might think of Peyton Manning hoisting the Super Bowl trophy, or how the Stanley Cup makes laps around the rink after winning the series. Older generations may remember ticker-tape parades or have fond memories of seeing grand speeches. Glory comes with winning, overcoming and defeating in the American ideal. It’s what is expect for our soldiers, it what we want from our favorite athletes, and its the image we create for our most popular politicians. It’s just how we see glory.
These images seem a little different with Jesus, however. Sure, there is the Triumphal Entry into Jerusalem, and the Calming of the Storm over the Sea of Galilee. But in the first story, there were no war machines, just people laying their cloaks on the ground. In the second, there were only twelve witnesses recorded in the text. In the end, he dies a criminal on the edges of society, abandoned by his closest followers, and mocked by the onlooking crowds. Depending on the text you refer to, the numbers who see his resurrected form vary from handfuls to hundreds. But in the end, there is no parade, no trophy, and no grand speech on a big platform.
We should probably sing about THAT glory.
But how do we do that? The song is just not as peppy as we are used to.
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