One for many

Honestly, we don't need more comments on Osama Bin Ladin's death. I have so little to say that would benefit anyone. I would quite happily not comment at all. But it does strike me - that in the quotes that are being tossed around about this event, I'm hearing a number of comments that either sound like, or refute, something along these lines:

"You do not realize that it is better for you that one man die for the people than that the whole nation perish."

Do you know where that's from? It's not from a US foreign policy speech. Nor is it from some weighty tome on terror and counter-terror strategies. It isn't from the political right. It isn't even from the political left.

It's from the Bible - and it didn't refer to Osama Bin Ladin, or to anyone like him. It referred to Jesus Christ, the one man who died so that many could be saved.

In all the chatter and fuss over Bin Ladin's death, I hope that we can take a moment to think about another death - one far more significant, one with ethical implications that are utterly wonderful for all people, for all cultures, in all situations. It needs no political theorists to critique it. It needs no article by Noam Chomsky, or a counter-article by a retired president of the USA. It cannot be deconstructed and cannot be avoided. It is real, and it is life-changing and it demands more than a comment or a blogpost. It demands our life, our all.

Who do people say that I am?

They had just seen all kinds of crazy things being done: a few loaves of bread feeding several thousand people (not once but twice), blind men enabled to see...But they seemed to be the blind ones. They looked at him every day of their lives, walked everywhere that he walked, heard everything he said, saw everything he did. But they still didn't understand.

Others did, though. Demons called out his name. Gentiles who knew nothing of the Jewish beliefs he fulfilled, recognised him for who he was. Blind men, bizarrely, managed to "see" the reality of his identity...

Then one day, they got it. Well, one of them did - the one called Peter. (Was that irony? "Peter" meant "rock", and he was the least dependable of any of them...) Peter got it. He said, "You are the Christ, the son of God."

And Jesus said something that Peter had never expected. He said: yes I am, but don't think that means what you've got in your head. Don't think it means victory and glory right here, right now. Don't think it means that you'll be glorified along with me, here and now, and given a seat in my new revolutionary government. Don't picture sword-and-sandle epics here, Peter. Picture the worst form of torture/tyranny/despotism you can. Got it? Good. Then picture me, there, subjected to that torture. Picture yourself, condemned to much the same sort of death. Picture that, then you'll have it. Then you'll know what it means for me to be the Messiah.

And Peter heard, and rebuked him.

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Is how I think of Jesus just a matter of "opinion"? Is it reasonable for people who disagree to say that they have "a different opinion"?

The truth is, people all throughout history have been very good at having opinions about Jesus: good man, revolutionary, tyrant, prophet, liar, messiah, God, madman...Phillip Pullman's curiously titled book, "The Good Man Jesus and the Scoundrel Christ" suggests something of the tension in how we look at the man. But, in truth, it isn't about opinions. It isn't a question of what we think about him, but of who he is, whether or not we recognise that truth. But it's also a question of finding the truth of who he is, and letting it transform us.

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Years later, Peter was shown the very same torture, tyranny and despotism that had killed his master. Jesus had said to him, when he had walked on earth, that "when you are old you will stretch out your hands, and another will dress you and take you where you do not want to go". Now it was true. Origen wrote that "Peter was crucified at Rome with his head downwards, as he himself had desired to suffer". He knew now. He no longer had an opinion about Jesus. His life had been transformed by who he now knew Jesus to be.

About Face

These days, my ears and eyes are readily tuned to take in all things Malaysian. Recently, a man at my church, who I presume must be Malaysian from the things he said, responded to a sermon about Jesus' death by commenting that, in a Muslim society, the idea of a suffering saviour is offensive. He was asking how we could present the Gospel in such a society. I don't remember the answer our pastor gave, but we did consider the question in our Bible study the following Tuesday night. What we agreed as a group was this: there's no escaping the fact that the Cross is offensive. It should be. We speculated if the fact of the matter is that we, as Christians, have simply lost sight of that offence, meaning that, in a sense, we have lost sight of what it really means. We shouldn't be avoiding offending people (I suggested as much, I think, a few months ago in a post I wrote at Christmas). Instead, we should recognise that the Gospel is offensive to those who are closed to its truth - a suffering saviour is the only one who is any good for us, but He's also the last thing many of us are looking for.

It did make me reflect on the "face saving" aspect of Malaysian culture, and the fear this demonstrates of being shamed. I remembered the principal of my school over there speaking about "taking off her face" in a conversation with a parent, in which she was required to be significantly humble. This phrase stood out for me, and it struck me that this is exactly what Paul tells us in Philippians 2:5-11 that Jesus did for us. In other words, if we try to hold onto our own sense of honour and moral dignity, we will be offended by what Jesus has done for us, and we will remain gloriously immune to His sacrifice. If, however, we accept our shame just as He bore it for us, then - biggest paradox of all - our shame will be taken away.

I wrote a poem about this while in Malaysia that seems relevant here. It isn't meant to be a direct allegory as such - bits of it won't make sense if you read it that way. But I more or less wrote it asking the question, "What if there were those who followed Jesus only for His status, and not for His sacrificial love?" This is what I produced. The name, "Giving Face", comes from a Chinese phrase which I had directly translated for me - it means, "Showing respect to", but often in a superficial kind of way. I wondered, and then wrote this poem to wonder, what true, deep "face-giving" would look like. Here is the result:

Giving Face

Tired of superficial looks,

bowed heads and insincere hearts,

he looked for a way beyond all this –

a way of speech deeper than the surface,

a way of looking much more penetrating than glances.

“I am sick,” he said,

“of respect that goes no further

than the start of my name.”

So he climbed the deepest of deep-deep wells,

far beyond mortal status-seeking and glory-clambering;

he went beyond the face-saving multitude

to a place where there lay the truest of faces.

Where did he go? the shy pilgrims ask.

Why, he jettisoned all he knew,

left this island behind.

He crossed over the sea, and out of his skin.

He shed all clothes and fine embroidery.

He went – do you know where it was?

He went,

(truest of true faces in store for him who overcame),

he went, pride discarded,

humility in hand,

to the hill of Calvary.

(Tawau, March 2010)