A letter to St. John

This was my final class assignment for seminary...I enjoyed it a lot. I was to write a letter to St. John telling him the history of Christianity in narrative form. This is far to long a post. Also, I should write another post about the use of narrative theology in reaching post-moderns...but we'll worry about that some other time.

Dear John,
I grew up sheltered, I know I did. My mom and dad stayed together. My older siblings were typical; I got picked on, but they were also fiercely loving, protective and loyal. Our house was big enough; the table was set with dishes of hot food made with love by mom before we even got hungry. In the summers, our huge yard became a wonderland—grassy fields for ball, soft and dark padded forest floors, smelling of pine, led to worlds of imagination and fun. Fall would come, and while the leaves turned hues of fiery red, bright pink, and wonderful orange, I would wake up early, grab my lunch (made by mom) and head out for the school bus. Winter brought snow days, snow forts, and the warmth of the fire place. Spring would come and the rains made rivers in our yard, in which we would play—barefoot in muddy water and wet grass—after the rolling thunder had cleared. All was right with the world.

But even sheltered boys grow up, and even sheltered boys leave home and taste bitterness in the world. I remember Columbine, and the sickening fear of two boys shooting their classmates, and the weeks of daydreaming about what that would be like in my high school, and the imagined escape routes. And I knew something was not right with the world. I remember Haiti, and that little boy with a swollen belly, discolored skin, and passing out granola bars amidst the hot dust like I was a king. And I knew something was not right with the world. I remember 9/11, the car radio, a speaker saying a plane has hit the tower, and then Oh my God, Oh my God, a second plane, and the paralyzing fear and obsessive TV watching, the mourning, and the air of unsettling. And I knew something was not right with the world. I remember Sri Lanka, tropical breeze, swaying palm trees, ankle-deep in sand, warm ocean lapping my heels, and looking in horror at tsunami-carnage. 15,000 dead in what the eye beholds; try to fathom, try to mourn, try to have compassion. And I knew something was not right with the world. I remember Gabon, red dust, dark hospital room, dying 19 year old, swollen belly, puffy skin, kidney failure without cure here in Africa, but easily handled in America. And I knew something was not right with the world. I remember the book, reading through tears, Rwandan Holocaust, and then meeting Emmy, holocaust survivor, refugee, with so little help; my country failed to stop it, my country failed him. And I knew something was not right with the world. I remember the free health clinic, honest, hardworking people, jobs lost to outsourcing, in tears accepting charity, hauntingly similar to mom and dad, and me. And I knew something was not right with the world.

Even sheltered boys disobey, and even sheltered boys taste bitterness in themselves. I know the pride, the elevated view, the haughty confidence, the self-worship. Something deep within abhors it, and I know something is not right with me. I know the burning anger, the knife-words, the child tantrum, the letting go to an emotion. Something deep within abhors it, and I know something is not right with me. I know the lusty desire, the greed, the collection of things around my heart. Something deep within abhors it, and I know something is not right with me. I know the “that which I want to do, I do not do,” and the “what I hate, I do,” and the “I do not understand what I do.” Something deep within abhors it, and I know something is not right with me.

Saint John, who will answer; who can answer? My generation is asking. My generation wants to be a part, a part of something bigger than all this anxious questioning. Scientific method, logical rationalism, and fact will not capture us. Truth is wanted, but only that truth which enraptures and includes us. Our parents see black and white and tell us to see the same; we have been taught to see shades and are discontent will all these sharp lines of distinction. Fact and statement are black and white and sharp lines fail to communicate; stories paint with shades, and to stories we can belong. Tell us a story we seem to cry. And funny, John, that Sunday School felt-boards and bed-time stories should answer the bitterness, which the pupil thought was a world apart.

In the beginning, the Spirit hovers over waters, over the formless, empty, and dark. And God—one who speaks and creates, one who is before, who has seen the beginning, active as the first scene begins--speaks commands into existent reality. Spoken word separates light from dark on the first day, and on the second a word divides water with an expanse called sky. Land pulls up from watery depths, flora bursts forth and the third day passes. Governing lights are spoken into existence, one to rule the day, one to rule the night, as God speaks on the fourth day. The waters teem with fish, and the expanse is filled with the flutter of wings on the fifth day. Creative genius speaks the animals into existence, but hold, He is not done. The speaking, pre-existent One has a masterpiece to reveal. “Let us make man in our image.” “Male and female he created them.” The seventh day dawns, completeness, and He rests in garden paradise that is good, with the male and female that are very good. Shameless nakedness rules equitably over the garden and is in complete harmony with the speaking, active One who rests. All is right with the world.

The serpent is crafty, forked tongue lying. Eve buys in; Adam joins all too willingly, to become like God, knowing good and evil. Oh would that they remain content in their innocence, being like God in image alone. Knowledge of evil becomes bitterness and death for all of creation. Harmony is broken, naked innocence hidden behind fig leaves. Garden paradise is closed; Adam and Eve must live in corrupted creation. Now the creation must groan in expectation. Through Adam, corruption is breed, into the fabric of humanity, into the created universe. Evermore, something is not right with the world.

Humanity now makes God in its image. Corruption abounds, every heart-intention is evil. The speaking, pre-existent, active One is filled with deep pain. Harmony is broken, naked innocence hidden behind fig leaves. Grieved, a deluge is planned. Yet a plan of grace survives. A man will pass through the waters and be saved. Noah has found favor, grace, and will start over with a representation of the corrupt creation. Eight start over, but fail to live in harmony. Something is indeed wrong with the world.

Abram is called; a family and people of God he will start. God will show His faithfulness and grace to the patriarchs, undeserving misfits. Abraham believes God and it is credited to him as righteousness—a response of faith to the speaking One brings back harmony and relationship. Isaac and Jacob continue in the heritage. Jacob’s sons sell Joseph to Egypt, and now the people of Israel grow up in the land of Egypt. Oppression begins and the Lord calls Moses to deliver His people. Pharaoh refuses to let the people go, plagues are called down. In preparation for Exodus, the people make bread without yeast, sacrifice the lamb and apply its blood over their doors. Blood spares them from certain death. They flee, Egyptian armies pursuing, to the Red Sea. The water means death to them, but God makes a way, they pass through the waters and are saved. Pursuing armies die in the waters. Now the Lord will make a covenant, a deal, with His people. The people will obey the commands. He will be their God, and they will be His people. Disobedience will be forgiven by the offering of blood, saving people from death. Oh but it is not the blood of bulls and goats He desires, but obedience. The covenant seeks to restore the relationship, the harmony between God and man. Israel only proves how deep the corruption runs. Through generations and reigns of kings, the people wander and disobey the covenant, worshipping that which can never be in relationship. In great forbearance, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob calls them back, only to be grieved with deep pain again. Ultimately they show—harmony is broken, naked innocence hidden behind fig leaves. The idolatrous people of God are conquered by nations who worship idols of wood and stone. Something is indeed wrong with the world.

Who will answer this; who can answer this? A long awaited Messiah, the Christ. One who will deliver his people from this bondage, who will restore the people to covenant relationship. Who but God—the creating covenant God—can do this? Now the true nature of God revealed—Father, Son, Holy Spirit. Trinitarian mystery—“Hear oh Israel, the Lord your God is one,” and yet three persons in relationship and perfect union. Greater mystery—the Son leaves heaven to be born a babe. All heaven watches in breathless anticipation as Son becomes Messiah.

Roman rule, occupation, oppression. Pagan emperor rules the people of God. The zealous long for the Messiah, but when, where, how will he come? Mary and Joseph pledged to be married. Humble, simple, Nazarene. Can anything good come from Nazareth? Mary with child, pregnant, not by human means, but by the Spirit. The baby she bears is no ordinary child, and yet a baby that must be wrapped in swaddling clothes. A humble birth in a cave here on earth; in heaven, the woman gives birth, the serpent, now a dragon, lunges to devour the woman and child, but is foiled. This is the child who will “rule all the nations with a rod of iron,” yet, on earth, he is helpless Nazarene babe. In heaven proclaimed, “Now have come the salvation and the power and the kingdom of our God.” Something incomplete has been revealed, curtain pulled back for a peek at God’s cosmos.

Jesus grows. He meets his cousin, John the Baptist, a voice in the desert making straight paths for the Lord. Jesus is baptized by John’s unworthy hands. Jesus passes through the water, and the pronouncement is made, “This is my Son whom I love; with him I am well pleased.” From the waters to the desert, Jesus is led by the Spirit to be tempted. Unlike the people of God, who pass through water to fail in the desert, the Son of God, will pass through water and resist every temptation in the desert. The Son, the Messiah, will rule humbly, not with miraculous seduction or compromise with the serpent. Unlike all who have gone before and failed to maintain the covenant relationship, Messiah is wholly faithful. Something incomplete has been revealed, curtain pulled back for a peek at God’s cosmos.

Emerging from the desert, Messiah, Son, Jesus, calls his disciples. He will teach them the story. He will teach them about the kingdom, revolutionary yet so unlike any other, simple yet so difficult to grasp. A kingdom in which the poor own heaven, the meek inherit the earth, and the insulted are rewarded. A kingdom in which the law governs even the intentions of the heart—comprehensive rule, over body and soul, society and individual, external behavior and internal disposition, cities and nations and homes and churches. A kingdom in which subjects sell all they own to find a pearl. A kingdom in which the shepherd leaves 99 to find 1, and the vineyard owner pays equal wages for a day or an hour, and the host calls the blind, lame and poor in from the streets to replace his honored guests. Utter foolishness, worthy of scorn, but irresistible, heralded by the mighty working of healings and miracles, guided by two commands, love God and love neighbor. Something incomplete has been revealed, curtain pulled back for a peek at God’s cosmos.

The zealous wonder, could this Jesus be Messiah? Will he overthrow the emperor? They fail to grasp his kingdom. Disillusioned, their zeal will become “crucify him, crucify him.” Knowing his time is short, Christ takes his disciples to an Upper Room. Passover meal shared. Bread without yeast broken; “this is my body.” Wine poured; “this is my blood.” Preparation? For an Exodus? Irresistible allusion, still yet incomprehensible. Something incomplete has been revealed, curtain pulled back for a peek at God’s cosmos.

Betrayed by one of his own, deserted by all his closest companions, Jesus is handed over. Beaten, mocked, crucified. Blood runs down. Jesus gives up his spirit. Body buried in an empty tomb. Early on the third day, two Marys discover an empty tomb. Angel pronouncement: “He has risen, just as he said.” Resurrection reunion and final commands—go and make disciples of all nations. Through his own death, sacrifice, and resurrection, the Son, the Messiah, has enacted his kingdom on earth. He has made an Exodus from the reign of evil into the reign of righteous relationship. Something not yet complete has been revealed, curtain pulled back for a peek at God’s cosmos.

A story not yet complete, but end foretold. Cosmos curtain pulled and behold a white rider, riding into conquest. He conquers the red, the black, and the pale horse; Christ conquering completely the evil of war, the evil of famine, and the evil of sickness and death. Evil on every plane—social, ecological, biological—is struck down by the white rider. With the resurrection, his ride has started; with his return, all that would seek to mount an Armageddon- resistance to his reign will be swallowed up. Something gloriously complete glimpsed, curtain pulled back for a peek at God’s cosmos.

And Saint John, the story could be told for a lifetime. And indeed this is the goal, to tell and live in the story for a lifetime. A story with salvation as plot; catastrophe-surpassing, creation-rescue as theme. His death and resurrection are an Exodus for me; I pass with Him through the waters of His death and then live in new covenant with Him. The bitterness tasted within me is answered. In new life, I join with the white rider in warring against evil, and wait with eager anticipation for His final triumphant ride. The bitterness tasted within the world is answered. Salvation has become my life theme, my story. I will tell it to the world, answering the bitterness tasted with a glimpse of God’s cosmos. I will give my life to this story; my mind will be renewed by the story. And my prayer will be always, Come white rider, come again Messiah. Maranatha!

In Christ,Jake Tillett
With a little help from Eugene Peterson, NT Wright, James Wakefield, and Saint John.