Our Loss to Glory

I am saddened to receive the news that one of my professors from seminary has gone to glory. As with the passing of all saints, it is a joy to meditate on the reception that awaits us when we cross over the threshold of death. Yet, as one still left behind in this world where all things are seen as in a mirror, darkly, I still experience the loss.

Rev. Dr. Marguerite Shuster, whose obituary you can find here, was my homiletics professor. I took my general homiletics (preaching) course from her, as well as my first preaching practicum. It was from Dr. Shuster that I learned the art of allowing a sermon to flow out of precise and thoroughgoing exegesis. It was through the patience in her gentle voice and incisive intellect that I learned how to receive criticism of my work that both convicted me and encouraged me to go and do better. It was through her engagement with difficult questions, homiletical, theological, and ethical that I saw how it was fully possible to be both firmly convinced and humbly open to conversation.

It was because of Dr. Shuster that I was given the blessing of the Parish Pulpit Fellowship, that allowed Sara and I to travel 12 countries over 7 months, soaking up experience for my 20 years as a small-church solo pastor.

It was because of Dr. Shuster that I have relished every opportunity to teach the skills of preaching, whether to second-career lay pastors, curious Ruling Elders, or high school students. I am certain Dr. Shuster's voice in my heart affects my work with speech and debate students.

I still tell people stories about how much Dr. Shuster influenced my thinking, my preaching, and my pastoral work. She and her ministry are still very much a part of God's work in my life.

I thank God for Marguerite Shuster. I am sad that she has left this world. But I hope that because of her influence I may continue to be a better proclaimer of Jesus Christ.

love,

emrys

Retraction and Rethinking: For All the Saints

After the initial version of this post, I was kindly asked by a fellow saint to reconsider my words about other traditions' approach to the saints. Taking that request as guidance from the Spirit (and helped along by suggested further reading into our various traditions), I retract my early post and re-work it to present the following. Thanks for reading, for listening, and for pushing back.

If you read my earlier post and were offended or injured by it, then I would gladly hear from you so that I can apologize and seek reconciliation. That is, after all, what this whole project is about.

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Last Friday we had a thorough, wide-ranging, and challenging discussion about saints. In spite of the many anecdotes I hear from members of our congregation, we didn't have any dyed-in-the-wool Catholics at the table. We had a couple few who had childhood memories of Catholicism (Catholic school, Catholic catechism classes), but not many people who were life-long Catholics now centering their Jesus-walk in the Episcopal Church.

The conversation and research was interesting enough, though, that I thought I would process some here for broader consumption.

"Saint" in the Catholic Church (and, to a different extent, in the Orthodox Churches) is a special category of person. The special category of "saint" as a "hero of the faith" is a departure point between Catholic and Protestant (Moravian, Presbyterian, Baptist, etc) Churches. Most if not all of the Protestant streams of faith interpret "saint" only according to the basic definition of the Greek word (hagios) in the New Testament applied to all believers in Jesus Christ. To believe in Jesus as Lord sets one apart, makes one holy. "Hagios" means "holy," so all Christians are "saints." They are saints not because they are miraculously or conspicuously good, as our common definition of the word indicates, but because their discipleship to Jesus Christ makes them holy, or different from the rest of the world.

A word about titles before I go on. Christians who participate in the Church under the authority of the Bishop of Rome (the pope) call themselves "Catholic." Most other denominations call that segment of the Church the "Roman Catholic" Church, because the word "catholic" means universal and they consider themselves part of the universal Church. But the (Roman) Catholics I have known do not use the term "Roman" in their name because, well, they are the universal Church. So I suppose from here on (at least in this post) I should use "catholic" to refer to the universal Church (all Christians) and "Roman Catholic" to refer to those under the authority of the pope.

In the Roman Catholic Church, a "saint" is someone who has led an exceptionally good life, usually accompanied by verified miracles, often accompanied by martyrdom (choosing death instead of renouncing the faith.) Being officially recognized as a hero of the faith, or "canonization," means that Roman Catholics may both look at them as exemplars and "invoke" them, or ask for them to pray in heaven for believers' concerns.

One can go down quite the rabbit hole of Roman Catholic theology in understanding the saints, including journeys through canonization, the differences between honoring, serving, venerating, and worshipping, beatification versus sainthood, and so on. If you'd like to do so, I recommend starting with the Catholic Encyclopedia at NewAdvent.org. (Start with the entry for "Canonization.") The Bellarmine Forum (https://bellarmineforum.org/) also has well-explained information about Catholic theology.

The Anglican Church (and, generally by extension, the Episcopal Church) has considered itself to be the "middle way" between Roman Catholicism and Protestantism. It has a governing structure and liturgy very much like the Roman Catholic Church, but sits under the Archbishop of Canterbury (within the Anglican Communion) rather than the Bishop of Rome. It has formally rejected invocation of the saints, but still regards saints as exemplars of the faith whom the living should emulate. (For a deeper Episcopal dive, see here.)

[The family tree has even more branches of course: In the 19th century a group of Anglicans believed that the Anglican Church had gone too far away from Roman Catholic spirituality, and started a movement a little to the RC side of Anglicanism called Anglo-Catholicism. For more on that, see this congregation's website. It's fascinating.]

In the present Church's American mash-up of traditions, members of any given congregation may come from, or still embrace, elements of faith characteristic of very different branches of the family tree. (Witness this Reformed author serving an Episcopal congregation.) I suppose this makes for a fascinating opportunity to crawl out of our fish bowls and see what it's like outside the water we've been breathing so long.

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It is interesting that Paul, writing to the Church at Corinth, says, "be imitators of me" (1Cor4.16). He says it again at 11.1: "be imitators of me, as I am of Christ." It is accurate to describe the goal of the Christian life to be imitating Christ. And if the life of another believer helps us to take another step toward Christ, then we give glory to God for it.

May our lives, as well, so reflect the light of Christ that others are drawn to that source and seek to live in its rays.

love,

emrys

For Christ's Sake: Just Talk to Them!

For those who read the pre-colon portion of this post's title and can only hear it as an expletive, let me explain. Yes, "for Christ's sake" is something that folks with no intention of invoking the Spirit of Jesus say in order to express exasperation or anger; and I don't want to encourage that use of the phrase. However, it is possible to do things for the sake of Christ--and what better way to call your attention to that motivation here?

One of the most abundant and subtle streams of evidence for thoroughgoing human depravity appears in casual conversation and begins with a phrase similar to, "How is So-And-So doing?"

Here we are--in a coffee shop, standing in the hardware store aisle, or on your front porch--with all the multiple universes of cares, joys, achievements, hopes, and sufferings that exist within and between us. So many things to ask about, talk about, and give thanks for. Yet, I ask you about . . . . Someone Else.

The manifestly darker version of this behaviour is what most of us would call gossip. I ask about Someone Else because I want the twisted power to pigeon-hole or silently denigrate Someone Else. Or, not so silently, I want to be able to ask other people if they have heard about Someone Else. When they haven't, I want to describe my second-hand juicy tidbit that, when consumed, allows us all to feel better about ourselves (except Someone Else, who is left out in the cold). I am excited to talk about Someone Else for the opportunity to pass judgment; I am also relieved to talk about Someone Else because, hidden behind a veil of silence, I am saved from your judgment. Herein lies the addictive power of gossip.

There is a different version of asking about Someone Else that appears, at first blush, innocent or even virtuous. Having served as a pastor for a good long time, I have been on the receiving end of this latter version a good many times. "How is So-And-So doing?" gets asked about someone who most folks know has been struggling. Asking me (whether I be a pastor, a friend, a closer neighbor) about this Someone Else serves as a veiled way to discover whether that person is being cared for. Will they be all right? Are they getting what they need? Are they getting better than I heard they were (via gossip) before?

This version feigns love by expressing interest in the facts of Someone Else's situation. And it avoids the ethical and relational burden that might befall me if I had a conversation directly with them. But Christians are called explicitly to share one another's burdens, not just to know about those burdens through the grapevine.

An essential element of the Body of Christ is people knowing one another well and caring for one another self-sacrificially. So avoiding the responsibility of care by asking second- or third-hand about Someone Else tears at the sinews of Christ. When we evaluate our words for gossip or false concern we are examining ourselves for Christ's sake. Christ's life in the world is at stake in how we talk about Other People.

How is So-And-So doing? For Christ's sake: Just talk to them! If we are in the same community together--the same church, mosque, or pickleball club--then you have means to text them, call them, and go visit them. Do it! And if you don't have the time or energy to communicate with them, I respect that. All of us have limited resources, and we cannot be expected to keep in touch with everyone even if we wanted to do so. 

But if you don't have that time, energy, or inclination then don't ask me about them. My response will be meaningless. And it steals precious time from our conversation, which could be plumbing the vast depths of you, me, or what God is doing between us. Or at very least helping me find the right size bolt for this thing I'm trying to fix--which is why I came into the hardware store in the first place.

The overarching claim of the Christian faith is that God comes into the three-dimensional life of humanity, wrestling with its suffering and death, to bring impossible new life. And that God, having accomplished this fully in Jesus Christ, sends us to do the same. It is the specific privilege of Christians to go where there is suffering, where there is evil, where there is grief and be agents of hope. We short-circuit our own calling and privilege when we practice the veneer of concern without going to be with others. When we do spend the time and energy to be with Someone Else, we become conduits of love.

~ emrys

Believing in Jesus

At last week's Theology on Tap conversation we addressed a question brought by one of our members: Do you believe in Jesus?

The conversation went far and wide, wending through marshes of epistemology, fields of theology, and craggy trails of Church history. But we often came back to touch the grass of the word "believe." One member brought the question most pointedly before us: "How you answer that question depends largely on what one means by 'believe.'" Indeed.

It is possible to take the word "believe" here such that the question becomes, "Do you believe someone named Jesus (presumably in Palestine in the first century) lived?" Do you believe in Ford F150s? Gluten-free bread? Divorce? Absent scientific proof of one's existence, thinking or trusting that someone lived once is an act of "belief." I believe in Abraham Lincoln, along with many people who accept historical documents and second- and third-hand testimonies. I believe in Abigail Adams, Lao-Tzu, Atilla the Hun, and Amelia Earhart in a way that I don't believe in Heracles and Circe. But there's not a lot at stake in saying "I believe in Jesus" in that way.

Behind the question as usually asked by present-day American Christians (a modest subset, I know, but in this case a meaningful one) is another question: "Do you believe Jesus is alive now?" It expands the present tense of the word "believe" to deepen the significance of Jesus' existence.

If I say Yes to this version of the question, I am saying that somehow Jesus' death in first-century Jerusalem did not end his life. My response could indicate that I believe Jesus rose from the dead (as in the Christian witness to resurrection). It could also indicate some more expansive definition of life in which I affirm that no one finally loses life: Jesus is alive now; so is Rahab the madam of Jericho, Abraham Lincoln, Abigail Adams, and my favorite 16th-century author. Everyone, living or dead, is alive and with us, perhaps by virtue of a cosmology in which all spirits pass through bodily form but live eternally in another realm. If I want to make Jesus special nonetheless, perhaps I affirm that he has a status like Bodhisattvas in some Buddhist streams: ones who resist Nirvana in order to teach embodied ones the path to enlightenment. I "believe in Jesus" because he is alive now.

In most Christian circles, especially ones in which this is a shibboleth for belonging or orthodoxy, "Do you believe in Jesus?" means "Are you loyal to Jesus?"

The full semantic range of the word "believe in" or "trust in" in the Christian scriptures includes the meaning "be loyal to" or "be faithful to." Simply believing in the existence of a Ford F150 is a waste of my spiritual energy. Do I drive it? Do I load all my tools in it and trust that it will get me to the job site? When it breaks down, do I invest money in it to repair it and return it to service? Do I give credit to it in conversation with others, making public the fact that my ability to earn a living depends on this vehicle? (By the way, I do all these things for an old Toyota Highlander; but I understand many good folks really believe in Fords.)

We begin to get at the scriptural sense of "believing in" when we talk about political candidates. Do you believe in her? Sure, they exist, no one argues that: Their faces are publicly projected. But will she argue and work for the things we consider good? When we go to the ballot box, will we vote for her? Are we loyal to her?

Do I believe in Jesus? Am I loyal to Jesus? Loyalty, unlike the neutered terms "believe" and "trust," implies a sacrifice of other options. When I am faced with a choice between using my money to serve someone else in love and using it to please myself, will I choose the former? When I am faced with a choice of using all my time for leisure versus dedicating some time to communicating with Jesus, do I choose the latter?

Many of us who call ourselves Christian confess the scriptural affirmation that we "believe in Jesus," intentionally applying one of the first two meanings given above. If it is enough to believe that Jesus existed--and maybe even that he said some good stuff--then Yes, I happily believe. There is no binding commitment there. If it is enough to believe that he is still alive--somehow, perhaps in a manner of my choosing--then I will happily confess that, because we're all alive after all. No sweat (or blood or tears).

But it is a harder thing to confess that I am loyal to Jesus. Without Jesus present physically to declare that he will be loyal to me, this is a one-sided commitment. I subjugate myself. I become someone beholden to Jesus' person, teachings, and promises. This is risky. The only way I can be confident to do something so irrational is to believe (there's that word again) that Jesus is somehow in cahoots with benevolent divinity that has top-level authority. After all, being loyal to the second-place candidate for office is not a recipe for success.

I believe Jesus lived, is alive, and is worthy of all my loyalty. I believe he is a unique intersection of divinity and humanity on whom all physical history hinges. I share this confession with the Church. Our confession serves as the source of our blessing and the core of our mandate. And by giving Jesus our loyalty, we enter into eternal life.

~ emrys

P.S. Thanks to Mary for bringing this question to us, asking it with such interested intensity, and to the whole group for taking the question(s) seriously with me. You are a tremendous blessing in my walk with Jesus. In fact . . . You are Jesus' presence for me.

The Lenten Fast 3

 This liturgical season of Lent goes way back. There seems to have been an early impetus for the Church to prepare for and commemorate Jesus’ suffering, death, and Resurrection by means of fasting.

If you'd like to take a deep dive into the history, I recommend this article in the Roman Catholic Church’s official encyclopedia, the New Advent: https://www.newadvent.org/cathen/09152a.htm

You can follow links in this article to articles on “fast” and “mortification,” which make for fascinating reading (if a bit dry, as you might expect from an encyclopedia article).

I tend to approach these things from a Protestant perspective, and more narrowly from a Reformed perspective, which biases me toward wearing certain lenses. One lens is polarized for legalism in the Church. You will see in the above article a broad historical concern for what the rules of Lent and the rules of fasting dictate. When fasting, at what time of day can one eat, what materials can one consume, and how much of each? While we may no longer adhere to the rules of Roman Catholic doctrine, seeing these rules unfold historically with such firmness reveals that we tend to substitute attention to the discipline for attention to the effects.

If you dig deep into the article on fasting in New Advent, you find an assertion that the specifics of fasting are really important because fasting is a tool of expiation for sin. And I see this topic, too, through another lens.

We have a long tradition that views fasting as somehow dealing with the problem of past sins. This perspective sets off alarm bells for me, because it threatens to dilute the conviction that we are fully forgiven in Christ, and do not have to bear the guilt or shame of past sins. This perspective reminds me of how we have on occasion taught our children to do chores: as punishment. Your consequence for bad behavior is to vacuum the house. But wait–isn’t the purpose of vacuuming so that we and guests can better enjoy the comfort of our home?

These two issues, legalism and penitence–and we might add limiting Christian discipline to seasons–remind us that it's hard to keep our eyes on the prize. We have been given the Spirit of Christ, forgiven from past sins and empowered to grow in love all of our days.

I would rather set aside the questions of “Am I following the fasting rules just right?” and “Am I fasting enough to atone for my sins?” I would rather pick up the question, “What is God showing me about myself in this fast?” I would rather ask God, “How do you want me to grow into the image of Jesus?”

When we offer ourselves to God, accentuating that offer with the space opened by fasting, God fills that space with the Spirit. And the Spirit always comes to make us more like Jesus, empowering us with grace and peace.

~ emrys

An Insider's Perspective

I appreciate the wide range of guests that Mark Labberton hosts on his podcast "Conversing." Especially apropos right now is this conversation with a Texas Republican Christian who has especial insight into national leadership: https://comment.org/podcasts/keeping-the-country-safe/

I recommend it to you.

~ emrys

The Lenten Fast 2

 It is a strange thing to fast. We give up things with some regularity: I may stop eating meat products in order to lower my cholesterol; I may stop scrolling Instagram in order to get some work done; I may stop buying books so that I can afford to go on vacation. Ceasing to do something I want to do constitutes part of normal life. But fasting is not normal.

In the Christian discipline of fasting, I cannot draw a straight line from not eating (something, or anything) to a particular goal. By abstaining I do not get something else done. And God does not promise a particular outcome from a fast. So what am I doing?

Paul of Tarsus wrote, “for if you live according to the flesh, you will die, but if by the Spirit you put to death the deeds of the body, you will live” (Romans 8:13, NRSV). As a condition of life, Paul writes, I “put to death” the deeds that my body drives me to do. The old-school term for this is “mortification.”

A full understanding of what's happening in mortification takes a lifetime. But I start by recognizing that somehow sin works in my body and therefore I train against sin by showing my body who’s boss. And I do that by telling a core craving, like hunger or the need to stay connected, to go to the principal's office while I get on with class. That's fasting.

What do I learn when I send hunger to sit in the corner? Only the Spirit knows exactly, but what might begin to dawn on me is that my belly is not in control of my life. If I am fasting from social media, I might learn that The Fear Of Missing Out is full of hot air and learn what it feels like to wake up, more alive and peaceful after a day and night of Missing That Meme.

I might. I also might discover that fasting is hard, and I am weak. Hallelujah: I have been given another grace from the originator and finalizer of our trust. I have discovered a place where God hopes to do more work in my heart. With either outcome, or any outcome, I have been given more life in Christ by putting to death the parasite of sin sucking on my soul.

Life, as Jesus teaches, does its own thing. The kingdom of heaven naturally expands from mustard seed to spreading tree, from a sprinkle of yeast to a lump of dough overflowing on the counter. By fasting we weed the garden, we clean out the proofing bowl, we scrub our hard drives of viruses. And then we see what the Spirit will grow in those open places.

~ emrys

The Lenten Fast 1

I am curious about fasting. We are about to enter a season in which the more liturgical Christian traditions encourage fasting: Lent, the six weeks leading up to Resurrection Sunday. I would like to engage the discipline of fasting this year; perhaps you will join me in this. But how to choose what to fast from?

Fasting is a discipline of abstinence, by definition. What shall I remove from my life for six weeks in order to . . . more on that later. First: What to choose?

In my experience, folks fast in Lent from something that is optional, but which also may be unhealthy in large or frequent doses. Like sugar, chocolate, social media, and so on. Generally there is an intention to return to the practice or consumption of the thing after Resurrection, though sometimes the Lenten fast is an attempt to begin a long-term reduction in usage. I do not have hard data, but reflecting on the phenomenon of New Year's resolutions I feel confident guessing that this attempt does not produce long-term results.

This is a strange confluence to me: that I should fast from something temporarily, something that my life might be better without, with a plan to return to it.

If I have a bonus motivation in Lent–motivation from liturgy, from tradition, from a community practice–why would I not use this opportunity to fast from something that I know I should be ushering out the door? In these six weeks, soon upon us, I will have an unusual number of accountability partners ready, unashamed, to ask me if I have been keeping my fast, for a full six weeks. Why not use this time for something more than a good feeling that will fade? Why not follow the Spirit into some more brightened life?

So my question is changing. I am beginning to wonder less, What good thing will I give up for Lent? and more, What thing will Lent help me give up for good?

~ emrys

Machiavelli: The Prince

I recently listened to an episode of "Honestly with Bari Weiss" about a Princeton professor who teaches his students to read and think critically. One of the (only) 5 books Professor Brooks assigns in his class is Niccolo Machiavelli's The Prince. I was inspired to read it. I might say that I was inspired to read it "again," except I'm not sure I actually read the whole thing in high school; we may only have read excerpts. (This time around I read Harvey Mansfield's translation, quoted below.)

Spoiler alert: nowhere in The Prince does the sentence "the ends justify the means" occur.

Machiavelli is writing only for princes: that is, men in 16th century Italy who are solely in charge of sovereign states (of which there were many on the Mediterranean boot). He is not writing for fathers, mothers, pastors, handymen, software developers, or members of Congress. However, the clarity of his writing borne from the narrowness of his audience produces thoughts valuable to everyone--which I suppose is why we're still reading his work.

I recommend the whole book to you, but as a sampling of Machiavelli's words that make me think more critically about my own understanding of leadership, here are a couple of quotations.

"And truly it is a very natural and ordinary thing to desire to acquire, and always, when men do it who can, they will be praised or not blamed; but when they cannot, and wish to do it anyway, here lie the error and blame" (ChIII, pg14). Machiavelli's assumption is that people want to acquire--stuff and power. He does not consider the case in which someone does not want to acquire. It's baked into the system. I think that our current American society makes the same assumption: A desire to acquire makes the market work, and democracy diffuses, by constant effort, dangerous acquisition of political power. While certain cultural threads, like simplicity movements in Christianity, attempt to reduce the desire to acquire, by and large it's keeping the wheels turning. Machiavelli has not patience for "wishful thinking." If we have the same view of human nature, then Machiavelli has strong grounds for his conclusions about how leaders should act.

"[Cruelties] can be called well used (if it is permissible to speak well of evil) that are done at a stroke, out of the necessity to secure oneself, and then are not persisted in but are turned to as much utility for the subjects as one can" (ChVIII, pg37-38). Here we approach the common summa shorthand of "the ends justify the means." Machiavelli allows for evildoing by leaders, as long as it is limited and stops at what is necessary for the leader to secure power. Machiavelli goes on to say that long-term power is best secured by doing things that are good for people (like letting them acquire stuff); but actions in the short term that may be shocking or cruel are allowable. I see a parallel in personal ethics when we articulate a right to self-defence: I may do things to secure the safety of my person which, if I did them spontaneously to a stranger on the street, would normally be considered criminal. Perhaps there is a parallel for leaders in a democracy assuming a position and then "cleaning house" of those who don't hold the new leader's political positions. Tenure is cast aside in order to secure the political goals of the new leader. Is this an acceptable carve-out for normally unacceptable behavior?

"For a man who wants to make a profession of good in all regards must come to ruin among so many who are not good. Hence it is necessary to a prince, if he wants to maintain himself, to learn to be able not to be good, and to use this and not use it according to necessity" (ChXV, pg 61). Trying to be 100% good in an evil world is doomed to failure. So all leaders must learn intentionally to be evil when it is necessary to keep power. I hear here echoes of a future Nietzschean "will to power" which is "beyond good and evil." In my personal search for leaders who have integrity, Machiavelli seems to suggest that in order for someone to stay in power they will need to sacrifice integrity. Is this an accurate description of our political life? In order to win elections, must I engage in smear campaigns against my opponents, because they will do that to me? Must I make collection of money the primary work of my career because others will amass more and oust me otherwise?

As one who complains inwardly about how hard it is to find "an honest politician," I find in Machiavelli a rather incisive critique of my hopes. I am led to think about the minority of Christians--a minority but not a small number over time and space--who absent themselves from all secular politics, because Jesus' kingdom work is incompatible with the worldly work. Maybe they have a valid point. I also think about the other side: "moral majority" Christians and those who want political leaders to give strict Christian ethics the power of the sword, in an effort to place our nation "under God." How does that work if Machiavelli is right and to maintain power in an evil world one must sacrifice one's goodness?

If you're interested in these core questions about ethics and leadership, The Prince is a great place to begin your exploration. And if we're near each other, I'd love to sit down for a cuppa with you and join in that exploratory work. May the Spirit grant us ever wider wisdom as we search.

~ emrys

Flags in the Sanctuary: The Christian Flag . . . ?

On the side of your sanctuary opposite the American flag may be a white flag with a blue upper corner and a red cross in that corner. That is (you may have wondered) the "Christian flag," invented in the early 20th century by a Sunday School class and one Charles Overton (no relation to the window). For a deep, enthusiastic, and patriotic dive into the history of the Christian flag, I direct you to this site from the Christian Heritage Fellowship.

It appears that the Christian flag came on the scene in the same era that American flags were proliferating in American Christian churches. This parallel seems significant to me, so much that I hypothesize that the Christian flag came about because American flags were multiplying in sacred spaces. I speculate (and let me name it as speculation now, because I'm not sure how to test this hypothesis) that folks saw the American flag and thought, "Wait a minute, Jesus is Lord over all the earth. So how can the American flag have pride of place?" But removing the American flag wasn't an option (see earlier posts), so the natural move is to fly another flag that lets the American flag know who's in charge.

But who's really in charge? Because the US Flag Code indicates that the US flag must be the highest in a place, Christian flag placement is fraught. James Pollock wrote a Christian flag code for just this reason (see Heritage Fellowship site above). In my view, the presence of a symbol in the sanctuary that immediately questions whether a Christian symbol can be lifted higher than it should immediately give us pause.

We should also pause over the colors of the Christian flag. Christianity has been around 750 years longer than the United States, and on the continents of Asia, Europe, and Africa long before North America. It has more adherents outside the United States than inside it. Yet the only three colors on the Christian flag are white, red, and blue--strangely identical to the colors of the American flag.

(If you wonder what those colors represent, look no further than this vendor of flags, which specializes in patriotic and Christian symbols.)

What of the enduring color of royalty (Christ the King), purple? What of the color of wealth (treasures in heaven), gold? What of the color of creation (Maker of heaven and earth), green? What of the grave conquered by the resurrection, black?

It is notable that only American churches and ecumenical groups have adopted the Christian flag. We might best re-name it the American Christian Flag--which leads back to the question of why the Prince of Peace needs a symbol whose use and meaning are tied to battle?

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As you may have surmised from this series, I find little to commend the use of the American flag or the Christian flag in Christian sanctuaries. I believe it is possible to thank God for the blessings of citizenship in any country without presenting a flag in the front of the worship space. I think national flags in those places dilute the confession of the Church that Christ calls together all nations, tongues, and peoples into one body. I think flag presentation obscures the fact that nations are human inventions--though good and useful in their own rights--far inferior to the power of the Holy Spirit and divisive even in the best of circumstances.

Does the cross not suffice to symbolize our identity and call us to be good Christians and good citizens wherever we are? And if walking the path of the cross were to make us bad citizens, change would be demanded not of Jesus but of the nation in question.

Thanks for taking our faith and symbols seriously. Even if we disagree on the meaning of the flag in worship, in whole or in part, I hope that I've offered you ideas that help you articulate your position more clearly. Holy Spirit, give us wisdom to navigate this world with love, grace, and truth.

~ emrys