Sermon [with audio]: "Worthy is the Lamb"

Delivered at Rainbow Mennonite Church, Kansas City, KS
April 14, 2013.

Scripture: Revelation 5:11–14

In May of 1757, a promising and precocious 35-year-old poet and writer by the name of Christopher Smart was committed by his father-in-law to St. Luke’s Hospital for Lunatics in Bethnal Green, London. Though it was initially intended that Smart would only stay for a short while, the conditions of the sanitarium ultimately took their toll on his mental health, and he would spend the remainder of his life in and out of what were in those days called “madhouses.” Smart’s condition was marked by frequent periods of prolonged religious ecstasy, and he was often seen wandering the streets alone or cradling his cat Jeoffry. Over the course of many years of deplorable living conditions, his health steadily declined. This was back before the days of counseling, psychiatry, and mood-altering medication. In one of his poems, Smart wrote of his “caretakers”: “For they work on me with their harping-irons, which is a barbarous instrument, because I am more unguarded than others.”

He was eventually released from the asylum in 1763, spending seven short years in freedom before some previous financial debts caught up with him and he was arrested in 1770. He was imprisoned early in January 1771, but succumbed to pneumonia alone in his cell just a few months later in May of that same year. He died miserable and utterly alone, abandoned by his family.

Over the course of four years between 1759 and 1763, during his confinement, Smart penned seven hefty fragments of poetry that later came to be collectively known as Jubilate Agno, or Rejoice in the Lamb, which went unpublished until 1939, almost 200 years after its composition. At first glance, Jubilate Agno appears to be little more than the frenetic ramblings of a seminary student gone mad. However, a close reading reveals Smart’s mastery of liturgical style—being himself a high church Anglican—in addition to some fine wordplay. Still, with all of its liturgical grandeur, the poem reeks of mental, emotional, and spiritual anguish.

The lengthy poem is written in a sprawling call-and-response form, and begins on a cosmically tremendous note:

Rejoice in God, O ye tongues!

Give the glory to the Lord and the Lamb,

nations and languages and every creature

in which is the breath of life!
Let man and beast appear before him

and magnify his name together!

The most striking thing about this poem to me is the sheer joy welling up in Smart’s writing through the depths of his despair. Though his family had left him, though he was under great financial stress, though his health was failing and though everyone around him thought he was a fool, Smart found hope in his cat Jeoffrey. He found hope in the characters of the Old Testament, found hope in the apocalyptic image of the lamb, and found himself in a state of mind that allowed him not only to rejoice in the lamb himself, but to envision all of creation joining in with him, even as his own caregivers beat him with iron tools.

Like Jubilate Agno, the Book of Revelation emerged at a time when the Johannine community—the group of early Christians for whom it was written—was under an extreme amount of duress, persecution, and hopelessness. Revelation is not a book that was ever intended to “predict” the future, to be milked into a profitable series of 16 novels, or to be made into a really bad Kirk Cameron movie. Instead, this “apocalypse,” or “revelation” was written as a polemic against the Roman Empire, but also as a message of hope to those Christians suffering at the hands of Caesar. These Christians not only suffered the violence of physical persecution, but also the indignity of what appeared to be their philosophical error—this was almost a century after Christ; surely God was not coming back to establish God’s reign on earth if it hadn’t already happened by now.

And then John has this vision. This revelation.

To get you up to speed with where we are today: John is whisked away to heaven in a vision, and at one point he sees this scroll, and all of heaven is mourning because no one can break the seal on this scroll that holds the great mystery of the universe. But then, just as the Revelator himself begins to weep, he hears a lion roar with a ferocious bellow. But when he turns, he sees not a lion, but in fact a little slaughtered lamb. Now, the lamb is slain, but for some reason is yet alive—still bears the marks of his wounds from death—and stands in the presence of the throne of God. And it is seemingly because of these wounds that the Lamb is “worthy.”

But I want to draw your attention to what exactly the Lamb is worthy of:

[Read Revelation 5:11–12]

Power, wealth, wisdom, might, honor, glory, blessing—what’s wrong with this picture? The slaughtered lamb has none of these things. Even as all creation is singing its praise, the bloody, mangled, victimized lamb is the very definition of weakness, of poverty, of foolishness, of dishonor. The real, proper response for such a sight should be laughter, not praise. And yet, the lamb is the only one with the power to open the scroll, and ultimately the only one with the authority to establish God’s reign on earth as it is in heaven. A place of justice and mercy, where the trees grow leaves for the healing of the nations.

See, the Lamb defies our worldly expectations of glory and redefines these terms. No longer is power defined by politics and intimidation, but now by humility and self-sacrifice. No longer is wealth associated with monetary gain—what would the lamb need with money?—but now by poverty, empathy, and by love. No longer are might and honor defined by getting the upper hand against someone and forcing others to submit to your will, but instead by binding up the broken hearted and by setting the captives free. No longer is wisdom defined by gray hairs, by theologizin’ and philosophizin’, but now by the very foolishness of the cross. Just as Jesus in the Gospels heralds the reign of God as the anti-Rome—where we turn the other cheek after being struck, where we walk the extra mile when forced to carry the gear of our oppressors, where the poor are exalted and the rich are sent away empty-handed—so do these anti-values become values under the Reign of God. We look for Jesus expecting a lion, instead we get a lamb.

And it is in the lamb’s weakness that we see true strength.

One of my favorite movies when I was a kid was the 1984 film, The Neverending Story. In the movie, there’s a character called the Rock Biter, whom the hero Atreyu encounters early on. The Rock Biter is called the Rock Biter because he is basically this giant mountain with arms and legs and a face, who eats rocks (which is kind of weird, if you think about it) and rides around on a big stone bike, and he has these tiny friends that travel with him—a guy with a “racing snail” and a guy who rides around on the back of a giant bat. But at the end of the movie, when an approaching darkness of nonexistence known as the Nothing is eating up everything in its path and threatens to rip the world apart, Atreyu runs into Rock Biter once again, and this time, he sits alone, staring at his hands that are as big as houses, waiting for the world to end. “They look like good, strong hands, don’t they?” the Rock Biter says. “My little friends. I couldn’t hold onto them. The Nothing pulled them right out of my hands. I failed.” The Rock Biter’s admission is one of the most empathetic, heartbreaking moments of the whole film, because we look at this giant mountain of a creature, we see his monumental strength, and yet in his inability to save his friends we see something of ourselves—we see our own weakness and vulnerability. How many friendships have we let slip through our fingers because of things we have done or haven’t done? How many loved ones have died of illness, despite our best efforts to take care of them? How many times have we failed, picked ourselves up, and failed again?

Canadian theologian Jean Vanier says that “the greatness of humanity is that we are programmed to become weaker, that we all ultimately become conscious of our own fragility.” When we fully reveal ourselves to one another in all our brokenness, we catch a glimpse of Christ. We catch a glimpse of the lamb who redefines weakness as power, poverty as wealth, foolishness as wisdom, frailty as might.

In our weakness, we find strength in one another. In our despair, we find joy. In our brokenness, we encounter God.

So we see in this passage that the Book of Revelation doesn’t predict the future. It eternally informs the present.

Like the Rock Biter who finally has to admit his own weakness, like those who praise the upside-down values of the Lamb in John’s vision, and like Christopher Smart, who discovered joy even in his suffering, we must find each other in our vulnerability. It’s just like in our celebration of the Eucharist—we not only recognize Christ’s brokenness in participating in the Lord’s Supper; we recognize that breaking the bread together in some way recalls our own brokenness before one another. And in that mutuality is power. We see that in Christ’s brokenness, we are to follow suit.

The emblem of the Moravian Church is the image of a slaughtered lamb surrounded by the motto: Vicit agnus noster, eum sequamur. “Our Lamb has conquered, let us follow him.”

Let us follow the Lamb into weakness.

Let us follow the Lamb into vulnerability in our relationships with one another.

Let us follow the Lamb into the spiritual poverty that cultivates true humility.

Let us follow the Lamb into the Lamb into the community of the broken.

And may we all join those myriads of myriads and thousands of thousands in the unending cosmic hymn of praise for the foolishness of Christ.

Koinonia, the Eucharist, and Beloved Community

In 1942, Clarence and Florence Jordan and Martin and Mabel England founded a little project in Sumter County, Georgia, that they called a “demonstration plot for the Kingdom of God.” Based on New Testament teachings and the mutual submission exhibited by the early Christians in the book of Acts, it became an intentional community based on sustainable agriculture and human fellowship, and eventually gave birth to numerous humanitarian organizations such as the Fuller Center for Housing, The Prison and Jail Project, and most notably, Habitat for Humanity International.

Clarence Jordan, a New Testament Greek scholar, was fully aware of the meaning behind the word chosen to represent their community: Koinonia. This Greek word—koinwniva—appears around 20 times in the New Testament in one form or another, and typically is translated as “fellowship,” “community,” or “sharing.” The core of the word’s meaning implies a deep emotional and spiritual bond, as that of a spouse. Strangely enough, it is this same intimate spousal companionship that Christians are said to share with one another and with the Source of all creation.

Diner en Blanc

Koinonia has an inherently reciprocal nature at its base meaning. It is more than simply showing up to church or doing a good deed for a neighbor. To share in the practice of koinwniva means to share not just an amiable spirit, but also to contribute one’s own material possessions. Because of this, perhaps nowhere is koinwniva more fully realized than at the Eucharistic table.

Today, whole subcultures—both religious and secular—have sprung up around the concept of table fellowship. New publications like Kinfolk Magazine specialize in getting people together for intimate little group meals, and the French concept of diner en blanc, a sort of flash mob in which thousands of people dressed in white share a picnic in a public place, has become a worldwide phenomenon.

The ancient Greeks (as well as other Pagan-based cultures) believed that sharing a meal was a sign of complete union, both with the other feasters present at the table and with God. For them, koinwniva symbolized not merely fellowship, but a “consummation” of the total union between the human and the divine. This concept was fully realized in the Dionysian cult of ancient Greece.[1] It is not difficult to see the connections between this belief and the early mystery that surrounded the practice of the Lord’s Supper.

However, though the etymological roots of koinwniva greatly influenced the Christian use of the word in the New Testament, the latter understanding of the word remained distinct from the former in at least one key aspect: rather than union with the deity, Christian koinwniva emphasized communion with God.[2] In the image of the Eucharistic meal, we have the exemplar understanding of what it means to share in the community of God in the here and now. This image of mutuality also fits in well with the gospel narrative of sacrifice—the Last Supper is followed by the climax of the Jesus Story: the cross. Bonded by the initial tragedy of the crucifixion and the sudden hope offered by the resurrection, it is little wonder that from the earliest cultic memory, Christians have continued the Eucharistic practice throughout history. I often repeat the words of a pastor friend of mine, who once told me, “The feet of enemies are rarely seen under the same table.”

 

Yet koinwniva is more than just passing the potatoes. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. envisioned a world where those who dwelt on commonality rather than difference could openly share in what he referred to as the Beloved Community. His was a vision that was not only part of a future eschaton, but also able to be glimpsed in the here and now.  In his book, Where Do We Go from Here: Chaos or Community?, Dr. King recounts being stranded in an airport with a diverse group of people following the 1966 march to Montgomery: “As I stood with them and saw white and Negro, nuns and priests, ministers and rabbis, labor organizers, lawyers, doctors, housemaids and shopworkers brimming with vitality and enjoying a rare comradeship, I knew I was seeing a microcosm of the [humanity] of the future in this moment of luminous and genuine brotherhood.”[3]

Dr. King’s vision of koinwniva clearly involved not just those of the Christian faith, but humanity itself—those of “all walks of life.” It is my sincere hope that we as a species continue to widen the gates of the Kingdom of God until we share in that beloved koinwniva with all creatures great and small.

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[1] Gerhard Kittel and Gerhard Friedrich, eds. Theological Dictionary of the New Testament. Trans. Geoffrey W. Bromiley. Volume 3. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1964-1976. p. 799

[2] Ibid. p. 800

[3] Where Do We Go from Here: Chaos or Community? Harper & Row, 1967. p. 9. Quoted in Kenneth L. Smith and Ira G. Zepp, Jr., “Martin Luther King’s Vision of the Beloved Community.” Christian Century, April 3, 1974. pp. 361-363.

A Perfect Church?

Over the last several months, I have found myself involved in a number of conversations regarding what a church service would look like if I were designing it from scratch. Part of this stems from my own disenchantment with the Church, as well as the feelings of many of my peers who have been alienated by the institution. Part of what follows also stems from my dreams of what the Church could be. These words are my own opinions, and partially the product of many of the above-mentioned discussions. I'd love to take this opportunity to encourage further dialogue.

• "Bigger is better?" Not in this house.

First of all, the church should be small. Early churches functioned within the confines of the immediate "neighborhood," with worship services often being held in houses (these house churches formed a larger community network, resulting in "the Church in Corinth," or "the Church in Rome"). In a culture that often values a super-sized McChurch over an intimate community, it is refreshing to think of the Spirit of God moving more fluidly among less institutional meetings. Additionally, churches that get "too big for their britches" often fail at adequately discipling and providing for the spiritual needs of their congregants; often, members of large churches simply have the opportunity to show up, feel good about themselves for a while, and return home without offering much in return to the community (for more on this topic, see Wolfgang Simson's 2001 book, Houses That Change the World: The Return of the House Churches). A 20-30 member church provides an opportunity for adequate, organic community without drowning the congregants in the costs of coffee bars and theater seats.
Furthermore, churches should have no business owning property (unless it serves a significant purpose other than being a house of worship—ie., a homeless shelter). The house of God is not a steepled building (as beautiful as they may be). The house of God is all of creation, and is attested to in the human heart. Why should a congregation take on the burden of a mortgage, or pay to heat/cool for a whole week a building that is mostly utilized only on Sundays?

• No creeds, no sacraments, except...

The years have not been very kind to the Church's penchant for setting beliefs and practices in stone. The Nicene Creed, influenced by the major political and theological issues of its day, is not as pertinent to today's Church as it once was. In general, creeds are no sooner set to paper before they become over-analyzed and outdated—especially in the fast-paced theological milieu of the 21st century. Though I'm sure many will disagree, I propose that the only necessary sacrament to maintain a healthy Christian community is the tradition of the Eucharist. The symbol of the table is the most spiritual element of Christian orthopraxy; it feeds the body while also feeding the spirit. It carries with it the notions of sharing, sacrifice, friendship, and social health, and I feel it should be a vital piece of weekly worship.

• Order of Worship

It is important to explore and expand beliefs and traditions. However, there must be a baseline order of worship for any regular meeting/service, or its own fluidity will cause it to fail. Granted, every order of worship is subjective, and reflects the values of its particular faith community. With that in mind, however, here is what I envisioned:

- Gathering/Greeting/Passing of the Peace/Reading of Scripture (15 minutes). I seldom experience as much joy as when I have the privilege of initiating the Passing of the Peace in the small rural church where I often preach. By beginning the service this way, a general pleasant attitude is engendered in the hearts of those gathered. Reading scripture at the start of service and before the period of contemplation gives congregants something to meditate upon.

- Contemplation (30 minutes). I love this Quaker practice, and believe that it should comprise the most significant time segment of worship. I personally feel closest to God in a room full of people together in total silence. However, even I will readily admit that a full hour of silence is taxing, and perhaps does not exactly fulfill all of a community's spiritual needs.
- Homily/Music (15 minutes). This should be the least important part of the service, and at the same time, the most malleable. Should someone desire to speak, that would be fantastic! Should the congregation happen to have a musician that could lead us in one or two songs, that's wonderful! But the service does not hinge on this portion. This is merely a time of worshipful expression, in whatever form that might take.
- Fellowship/Eucharist (As long as it takes). This should be the most important part of the service. Being the central practice of Christian tradition, the sharing of a meal helps build community and invites us to share in the same love that Jesus shared with his disciples.

Congregants would sit in a circle/square, similar to the style of a Quaker meeting house. There may be candles; perhaps not. There may be an altar; perhaps not. The focus would be on one another.

• Diversify, diversify, diversify!

I want to attend a church that is not afraid to try new things. I want to attend a church that is not afraid to reach out artistically to feel out the meaning of its own humanity. The human soul is free, and the Church should relish and take advantage of this freedom in any way it can. If a painting, song, film, or other piece of art seems particularly relevant to the worship of God, it should be used and discussed! Art and the process of creation should play a vital role in a worship service. People should be free to express themselves, and the Church should make room for them to do so! And the above-mentioned Order of Worship should be adapted to accommodate. I want to attend a church where this is as welcome as this. Or this. Or, for whatever reason, even this.
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This all sounds fine and dandy to me. But here's the great difficulty: the Church does not exist to serve the needs of one person, or even two or three. Churches—as places of worship—exist to serve the spiritual needs of the congregation; they function primarily as a place where communities can gather to experience the Other. Post-modernity has splintered any illusions of a monolithic worship service that we might have previously held to be true. The so-called "Emerging Church Movement" has given birth in the last twenty years to schizophrenic faith communities who vacillate between the desire to be grounded in tradition and the desire to be sensitive to those without a specific tradition (a stance that has erroneously been dubbed "seeker-friendly"). I suggest that a church need not be encumbered by its desire to be sensitive to others' unfamiliarity in order to make converts. Churches should be courageous laboratories of spiritual experimentation that are at the same time unafraid of seeking out their own traditions. The only way in which the Church can continue to be a place of hope in this decade and the decades to come is if we break free of what is known and begin to dream.
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For more information about house churches, check out these 15 theses by Wolfgang Simson.

Fellowship with Lotus House

Yesterday, Alyssa and I had the privilege of spending time with some new friends at Lotus House, an intentional community in St. Louis. The good folks at Lotus opened their home to a gathering of several intentional communities in the area, including a couple Catholic Worker houses. We ate and laughed and got to know one another, and then afterward a few of us stayed behind outside to play some music. It was a beautiful thing. 

Chickens!

A home for bees! (Not honeybees).

Lots. and lots. of food. Alyssa and I had grilled portobello mushrooms.

After we ate, we all gathered (about 20 of us) in the yard and prayed together, with a combination of readings from Common Prayer, a hymn, and a couple poems by Wendell Berry. Since we're in the middle of the planting season, our prayers were mainly agriculture-themed:

You care for the land and water it;
you enrich it abundantly.
The streams are filled with water
to provide the people with grain,
for so you have ordained it.
You drench its furrows and level its ridges;
you soften it with showers and bless its crops.
You crown the year with your bounty,
and your carts overflow with abundance.
The grasslands of the wilderness overflow;
the hills are clothed with gladness.
The meadows are covered with flocks
and the valleys are mantled with grain;
they shout for joy and sing.
(Psalm 65:9-13)

And a Wendell Berry poem:

The Man Born to Farming
The Grower of Trees, the gardener, the man born to farming,
whose hands reach into the ground and sprout
to him the soil is a divine drug. He enters into death
yearly, and comes back rejoicing. He has seen the light lie down
in the dung heap, and rise again in the corn.
His thought passes along the row ends like a mole.
What miraculous seed has he swallowed
That the unending sentence of his love flows out of his mouth
Like a vine clinging in the sunlight, and like water
Descending in the dark?

Spending time with such open and loving people got me to thinking about community again.

Some day, I hope to set up a coalition or advocacy group for intentional living within an institution such as the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship. We would serve as a sort of exploratory committee, doing experiments within community settings to show the benefits of community living. That may be off in the future though. For now, I just need to focus on packing--I move to Liberty a week from today (Sunday). 

Until next time.

Peace be with you.

Joshua