In the Manner of a Corpse

The phrase perinde ac cadaver means “as if a corpse” or “in the manner of a dead body.” It is associated especially with Ignatius of Loyola and Jesuit obedience. In the Jesuit context, the idea was that one living under religious obedience should allow oneself to be “carried and governed” by divine providence through one’s superiors, as a dead body can be carried wherever another wills. A Jesuit Studies summary notes that Ignatius’s teaching on obedience was centered on Christ and extended beyond outward action toward the will and understanding, while still allowing a person to represent difficulties to a superior. (Portal to Jesuit Studies) A 1908 quotation of the relevant Latin renders the image starkly: the obedient person should be like a body that “allows itself to be carried in any direction and treated in any way.” (The Spectator Archive)

So the phrase has a dangerous edge. It can become a theology of domination: the living person reduced to a usable instrument. But it also touches an older ascetic question: how does the self become free from the tyranny of self-will? The problem is not desire itself, nor personality, nor conscience, nor agency. The problem is the ego enthroned — the self that must be obeyed, defended, admired, justified, and protected at all costs.

A Caelinian Reflection: Concerning the Corpse, the Cross, and the Living Self

From the lesser folios of Brother Caelinius, copied in the dim cloister of the Morastery, concerning the death that is not death, and the life that is not possession.

There is a saying among the old disciplined orders: perinde ac cadaver — as if a dead body.

And many have trembled before it, as well they should.

For no phrase that compares the soul to a corpse ought to be handled without fear. A corpse cannot speak. A corpse cannot protest. A corpse cannot discern whether the hands that carry it are gentle or cruel. Therefore let no abbot, bishop, prince, pastor, committee, empire, army, market, or machine take this phrase into its mouth too easily. For there are many who love obedience in others because they love power in themselves.

But there is another reading, hidden beneath the severe garment of the words.

Not the corpse of domination.
Not the corpse of erased conscience.
Not the corpse of holy silence before unholy command.

Rather, the corpse of the false self.

For the ego too must die.

Not the self God created.
Not the face beloved before the foundation of the world.
Not the child laughing in the garden of being.
Not the soul with its strange music, its wounds, its gifts, its tears, its fire.

That self must live.

But the other self — the swollen self, the defended self, the self that must always be seen, always be right, always be vindicated, always be centered, always be special, always be wounded more deeply than all others, always be praised for its humility — that self must be laid out upon the table.

Let it be washed.
Let it be wrapped.
Let it be carried away.

For there is a death that does not destroy the person, but releases the person from the prison of self-occupation.

This is not becoming zero in the sense of becoming nothing. It is becoming unowned by the ego. It is the long, daily, humiliating, merciful work of dying to the self that has mistaken itself for God.

Christ does not say, “Erase the image of God within you.”

Christ says, “Deny yourself, take up your cross, and follow me.”

And what is denied?

Not love.
Not conscience.
Not joy.
Not beauty.
Not creativity.
Not the holy ache of being alive.

What is denied is the little throne within the breast, where the anxious monarch sits and demands tribute from every room it enters.

The ego says:
“Who noticed me?”
“Who ignored me?”
“Who has more than I have?”
“Who threatens my place?”
“Who failed to honor my pain?”
“Who saw my brilliance?”
“Who wounded my image?”
“Who must I defeat so that I may exist?”

But the soul alive in Christ learns another speech:

“I am already seen.”
“I am already held.”
“I do not need to win in order to be real.”
“I do not need to dominate in order to be safe.”
“I do not need to disappear in order to be humble.”
“I may become small because I am held by a Love too large to measure.”

Here, then, is the mystery: the one who dies to self does not become less alive, but more alive.

The corpse-image fails if it ends in passivity. But it becomes fruitful if it passes through the tomb into resurrection.

For the Christian is not called merely to be dead.

The Christian is called to be dead to sin and alive to God in Christ Jesus.

Dead to the old compulsions.
Alive to mercy.

Dead to rivalry.
Alive to communion.

Dead to the hunger to possess.
Alive to receiving.

Dead to the need to be the hero of every story.
Alive to becoming a servant within God’s story.

Dead to reputation as an idol.
Alive to faithfulness in secret.

Dead to vengeance.
Alive to reconciliation.

Dead to the clenched fist.
Alive to the open hand.

Thus Brother Caelinius writes:

Blessed is the one whose ego has become a corpse,
yet whose heart has become a garden.
For such a one is not carried by tyrants,
but raised by Christ.

The work continues because the ego is not slain once only. It is a many-headed thing. It dies in the morning and returns by noon. It dies in prayer and rises in conversation. It dies in confession and reappears in ministry. It dies in one wound and returns disguised as wisdom.

Therefore the disciple must not say, “I have no ego.”
That is usually the ego wearing a monk’s robe.

The disciple says instead:

“Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.
Teach me to notice the old self without obeying it.
Teach me to lay down the false self without despising the true self.
Teach me to die without becoming dead.
Teach me to live without needing to be enthroned.”

For the goal is not corpse-like obedience to human hierarchy.

The goal is cruciform freedom.

Not the dead body as object, but the living body of Christ. Not the person emptied for use, but the person emptied for love. Not submission to domination, but surrender to resurrection.

And so the old phrase is taken down from the wall of fear and placed upon the altar of discernment.

Perinde ac cadaver — yes, but only if what lies dead is the tyranny of ego.

And beyond it, written in brighter ink:

Vivo autem, iam non ego, vivit vero in me Christus.

“I live; yet not I, but Christ lives in me.”

When Kierkegaard Got Cancelled

https://www.plough.com/en/topics/faith/discipleship/when-kierkegaard-got-cancelled

#HackerNews #Kierkegaard #Cancelled #Philosophy #Discipleship #Faith #Culture

Becoming Zero

A Sermon on Our Value in Christ

(Note: Sermons can be heard in audio format at https://millersburgmennonite.org/worship/sermon-audio/)

Philippians 2:1–13

Introduction

There is a strange kind of math at the heart of Christian faith.

Most of us are taught to become something: successful, respected, secure, noticed. We want a place, a voice, a purpose. There is nothing wrong with wanting life to matter. There is nothing wrong with wanting to be seen and loved.

And today, as we honor our graduates, we give thanks for real accomplishment, for effort, growth, perseverance, and the doors that now open before them. But I also want to bless them with this deeper challenge: do not let the world’s calculations of what counts for success be the measure for your life.

The world often teaches us an anxious kind of success. It teaches us to add and add and add: accomplishments, things, recognition, possessions, influence, control, certainty, proof that we are right, evidence that we matter.

Then Paul gives us the mathematics of Jesus.
Jesus, who had equality with God, did not use it for his own advantage.
Jesus emptied himself.
Jesus took the form of a servant.
Jesus became obedient, even to death on a cross.

Jesus became zero.

Not worthless. Not meaningless. Not erased. But emptied of grasping for power. Emptied of the need to dominate. Emptied of the need to stand above others. Emptied so completely that the love of God could be witnessed without obstruction.

Let us pray:

Que las palabras de mi boca y las meditaciones de nuestros corazones sean agradables a tus ojos, oh Dios, roca nuestra y redentor nuestro. Amén.

Homily

Becoming zero does not mean believing we have no value. It does not mean allowing ourselves or others to be diminished or abused in the name of humility. That is not the way of Christ. The humility of Jesus does not protect oppression; it exposes it. The self-emptying of Christ is not self-destruction.

To become zero is not to become nothing.

To become zero is to become free.

I once wrote a short poem called “Becoming Zero,” subtitled “The Mathematics of the Divine.” It begins:

“It is where
I need to be
not past the center
into negativity
but more of others
and less of me”

That is the distinction we need. Becoming zero is not moving past the center into despair, shame, worthlessness, or self-hatred. It is the place where my needs, preferences, anxieties, opinions, and desires are no longer the measure of everything.

It is, as the poem says, “more of others / and less of me.”

And then the poem continues:

“What were gains
I now consider loss
for where the axes
meet at zero
they make a cross”

Where the axes meet at zero, they make a cross.

That is Philippians 2. The vertical line: love of God. The horizontal line: love of neighbor. And at the center: Christ, emptied, humbled, crucified, and yet revealing the very heart of God.

So when Paul says, “Value others above yourselves,” he is not asking us to wander into negativity. He is asking us to come to the cross-shaped center.

Paul writes:

No hagan nada por ambición egoísta ni por vanidad.

“Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves.”

That sentence alone could transform the church.

Imagine if it became not just a verse we admire, but a practice we live. Imagine if every time we entered a room we asked, “Whose good am I seeking?” Imagine a disagreement where people asked, “How can I understand the interest of the other before defending my own?” Imagine life lived where the question was not, “How do I get my way?” but “How do we become more faithful to Christ together?”

That is the community Paul is describing.

“If you have any encouragement from being united with Christ, if any comfort from his love, if any common sharing in the Spirit, if any tenderness and compassion…”

Paul is appealing to what the church at Phillipi has already received. If Christ has encouraged us, if love has comforted us, if the Spirit has drawn us into fellowship, then those gifts should become visible in the way we treat one another.

La vida de la iglesia debe ser el desbordamiento de la gracia de Dios.

Church life should be the overflow of God’s grace.

If we have been comforted by Christ, we become comforting people.
If we have been forgiven by Christ, we become forgiving people.
If we have been welcomed by Christ, we become welcoming people.
If we have been served by Christ, we become servants of all.

Paul says, “Be like-minded, having the same love, being one in spirit and of one mind.”

That does not mean everyone in the church must have the same personality, opinions, politics, beliefs, preferences, background, or tastes. Christian unity is not sameness. The church is a body, not a wall of identical bricks.

La unidad significa que nuestras diferencias se reúnen bajo el señorío de Cristo.

Unity means our differences are gathered under the lordship of Christ.

We can disagree and still ask, “How do I love you?” We can see things differently and still ask, “How do I honor Christ in how I speak to you?” We can have strong convictions and still refuse selfish ambition and vain conceit.

That phrase “selfish ambition” matters. Paul is not condemning all ambition. There are holy ambitions: to serve well, love deeply, seek justice, create beauty, build peace, preach truth, care for the suffering.

He is naming the ambition that curves inward.

Selfish ambition says: I must win. I must be seen. I must be right. I must get credit. I must protect my place. I must not become less.

Then Paul names “vain conceit”: empty glory, hollow importance, the need to appear larger than we are.

Against all of that, Paul says: humility.

But humility is often misunderstood. Humility is not pretending our gifts are not real. Humility is not saying, “I am terrible at everything,” when God has given us abilities. True humility is living in the truth:

I am deeply loved, but I am not the center.
I have gifts, but they are not mine to hoard.
I have needs, but so do others.
I have a voice, but so does my neighbor.
I have interests, but they are not the only interests that matter.

Paul says:

“Not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of the others.”

He does not say we have no interests. He does not say our needs do not matter. He does not command a community where some are always sacrificed for the comfort of others. In a healthy body, every member matters. En un cuerpo sano, cada miembro importa.

This is where John the Baptist helps us.

In the Gospel of John, John’s disciples come to him worried. Jesus is baptizing. Crowds are going to Jesus. John’s influence is decreasing. His ministry is no longer at the center.

And John says:

“He must become greater; I must become less.”

That is becoming zero.

John does not say it with bitterness. He does not say, “Well, I guess I failed.”

John fundamentally understands his calling. John is not the bridegroom. He is the friend of the bridegroom. John is not the light. He bears witness to the light. John’s joy is not in being central. His joy is in pointing to Christ.

John is free because he knows who he is and whose he is. He can decrease because his identity is not threatened by Christ’s increase.

Ministry is not about us. It’s about Jesus. Our identity and value are rooted in Christ. Like John, we are free because we know who we are and whose we are. And that manifests itself in our relationships with others. As Paul says:

En vuestras relaciones entre vosotros, tened la misma mentalidad que Cristo Jesús.

“In your relationships with one another, have the same mindset as Christ Jesus.”

“In your relationships.” At home. At church. In disagreement. In conflict. In leadership. In service. In community. Have the mind of Christ there.

And what is the mind of Christ?

Jesus does not humble himself from a place of lowliness. He humbles himself from the highest place. He does not become servant because he has no power. He becomes servant because this is what divine love does with power.

The world uses power to dominate. Jesus uses power to serve.
The world uses status to separate. Jesus uses status to kneel.
The world uses authority to command attention. Jesus uses authority to wash feet.

This is why “Becoming Zero” is not just an individual spiritual idea. It is the shape of the church.

A zero-shaped church is a church where people make room.

It is where the strong do not use their strength to get their way, but to support the weak. It is where her members do not say, “This church belongs to us,” but, “How can we welcome those God is bringing among us?” It is where leaders do not ask, “How can I be important?” but, “How can I help others flourish?”

A zero-shaped church is where people in conflict do not rush to defend themselves first, but pause long enough to ask, “What burden, wound, hope, loss, care might my brother or sister be carrying?”

And this is where we must be honest: valuing others above ourselves is hard.

It sounds beautiful until someone else’s interests inconvenience us. It sounds holy until someone else’s needs require us to change. It sounds inspiring until valuing another person means listening longer than we wanted, apologizing more honestly than we planned, giving up a preference we cherished, or making room for a voice we would rather not hear.

There is a kind of mathematics that says: If someone else gains, I lose.

But Christ gives us different math. I call it The Geometry of Grace.

In Christ, another person’s dignity does not SUBTRACT from mine. Another person’s voice does not erase mine. Another person’s gift does not make mine meaningless.

God loved us 100% before we even learned to loved God 1%. My friends, that’s the Geometry of Grace.

Division disappears and the church grows like in Acts where people were ADDED to their number every day. That’s the Geometry of Grace.

The dignity of all of us is multiplied to become a sum greater than its parts. That’s the Geometry of Grace.

The first become last, the negative becomes positive, the least of these become Christ, and King of kings chooses to become zero….

“Therefore God exalted him to the highest place and gave him the name that is above every name…”

This is not a strategy for self-promotion. We do not humble ourselves in order to get applause later. We do not become servants as a clever way to become masters. That would just be selfish ambition wearing religious clothing.

But Paul wants us to know that self-emptying is not annihilation. The humbled Christ is exalted. The crucified one is Lord. God vindicates self-giving love.

Paul ends:

“Continue to work out your salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you to will and to act in order to fulfill his good purpose.”

Work out your salvation. Ocupaos de vuestra salvación.

Not work for your salvation because God is at work in you. The you here is plural. Do you believe that God is working in you? Do you believe that God is working in your sisters and brothers here? Do you believe that God is at work in our community, nation, and the world?

The mindset of Christ is being formed within us. God is working in us to will and to act according to God’s good purpose.

So yes, we practice. Yes, we choose. Yes, we repent. Yes, we listen. Yes, we serve. Yes, we learn to lay down selfish ambition and vain conceit.

But underneath our work is God’s work.

God is making us into the kind of people who can love like this. God is making us into the kind of church where people do not have to compete for worth. God is making us into a body where Christ is made visible more and more each and every day.

The text today is an invitation, but it also raises some hard questions. Let’s reflect on these together:

What do you need to let go? ¿Qué necesitas liberar?

Are you clinging to status, preference, control, resentment, recognition, or the need to be right?

Where is Christ inviting you to become less, not because you do not matter, but because Christ matters more?

Where is Christ inviting you to value another person’s interests above your own?

¿En qué momento te invita Cristo a valorar los intereses de otra persona por encima de los tuyos?

Maybe it is in your family. Maybe it is in this congregation. Maybe it is with someone you are avoiding. Maybe it is in a disagreement where you have been preparing your defense rather than your compassion. Maybe it is in a ministry where you need to rejoice that someone else is now carrying what you once carried. Maybe it is simply in the daily hidden work of making room.

John said, “He must increase, and I must decrease.”

Paul said, “Have the same mindset as Christ Jesus.”

Jesus said, “Whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant.”

This is the way of the kingdom.

Not upward grasping, but downward love.
Not selfish ambition, but shared joy.
Not vain conceit, but holy humility.
Not my interests alone, but the interests of others.
Not becoming nothing, but becoming free in everything.

So let us become zero.

Let us become empty enough for Christ to fill us.
Low enough for Christ to lift us.
Humble enough for Christ to be seen in and through us.
Free enough to value one another above ourselves.
Loving enough to make room for all God’s children.

And may the same mind be in us that is in Christ Jesus.

Let us pray:

Prayer (Less of Me by Glen Campbell)

Let me be a little kinder
Let me be a little blinder
To the faults of those about me
Let me praise a little more

Let me be when I am weary
Just a little bit more cheery
Think a little more of others
And a little less of me

Let me be a little braver
When temptation bids me waver
Let me strive a little harder
To be all that I should be

Let me be a little meeker
With the brother that is weaker
Let me think more of my neighbor
And a little less of me

May it be so

In the name of our Servant King, Jesus the Christ.

Amen

The Light Left On

In the Life

One of the most encouraging yet challenging truths in Scripture is that Jesus Christ does not simply save us from sin; He comes to dwell within us. Paul writes, “Christ lives in me” (Galatians 2:20). That statement almost feels too large for the human mind to fully grasp. When I look honestly at my own heart, I still see impatience, distraction, worry, and selfishness trying to compete for space. Jesus was calm in storms while I become frustrated in traffic. He was compassionate toward interruptions while I sometimes guard my schedule more fiercely than my spirit. Yet the gospel declares that the heart of Christ has already taken residence within the believer. The Greek word used in Philippians 2:5 for “mind” is phroneō, referring not merely to thoughts, but to attitude, disposition, and inner orientation. God is not merely adjusting behavior; He is reshaping the inner life.

I often think about Jesus calming the storm in Mark 4. While the disciples panicked, Christ rested in confidence before the Father. His peace was not dependent on calm surroundings. That same Christ now dwells in His people through the Holy Spirit. Max Lucado insightfully wrote, “God loves you just the way you are, but He refuses to leave you that way.” That is the tension of discipleship. We are accepted fully by grace, yet lovingly transformed over time. Salvation is immediate, but sanctification is gradual. We often settle for flickers of spiritual light instead of living continually in the presence of Christ. Like the Irish woman who only used electricity long enough to light candles, many believers tap into God’s power but rarely walk fully in it.

Jesus demonstrated what a fully surrendered human life looks like. He prayed before major decisions, withdrew for communion with the Father, and responded to suffering with purpose instead of despair. In Luke 6:12, before choosing the disciples, Jesus spent the night in prayer. His life reveals constant dependence upon the Father. The more I study Christ, the more I realize transformation happens not by striving harder but by abiding deeper. Jesus said in John 15:5, “Whoever remains in Me and I in him produces much fruit.” Notice the emphasis is not on frantic effort but remaining. Warren Wiersbe once observed, “The Christian life is not a playground; it is a battleground.” Yet Christ never intended us to fight that battle alone. The same Spirit who empowered Jesus now works within believers to produce love, patience, endurance, and holiness.

The beautiful promise of Romans 8:29 is that God intends to shape us into the likeness of His Son. That means the irritation I feel today does not have to rule me tomorrow. The anxiety that clouds my thinking can slowly give way to trust. The bitterness I once carried can become compassion through the work of Christ within me. Transformation rarely happens all at once. It happens as we keep the light on. It happens when we spend time in Scripture, when we pray honestly, when we worship despite weariness, and when we continually “fix our eyes on Jesus” (Hebrews 12:2). The more closely we look at Christ, the more His character begins to influence our own. The heart of humanity may seem far from the heart of Christ, yet through grace God is steadily bridging that distance one surrendered moment at a time.

For additional reflection, consider reading Bible.org on spiritual transformation

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The Maranatha Empire

There is a prayer so holy that it should burn the tongue of every empire that tries to speak it.

Maranatha.

Come, Lord.

It is the cry of the small church under pressure. The cry of the persecuted and the patient. The cry of those who have no armies to summon, no throne to defend, no voting bloc sufficient to save them, no market share large enough to secure their future. It is the cry of those who wait because they know they are not God.

But in every age, there are those who take this prayer of waiting and turn it into a banner of possession.

They say, “Come, Lord,” but what they mean is, “Give us control.”

They say, “Thy kingdom come,” but what they mean is, “Let our faction rule.”

They say, “Prepare the way of the Lord,” but what they build are prisons, borders, propaganda machines, religious celebrity platforms, and monuments to their own fear.

This is the Maranatha Empire.

It is not one nation only, though nations may become its servants. It is not one denomination only, though denominations may become its chapels. It is not merely Rome, nor Geneva, nor Washington, nor Moscow, nor any other city that has mistaken power for providence. The Maranatha Empire is the recurring temptation of the religious heart: to stop waiting for Christ and begin replacing him.

It begins quietly.

It begins with concern.

The world is dangerous. The children are vulnerable. The church is shrinking. The enemies are multiplying. The culture is changing. The old certainties are crumbling. The people are afraid.

Fear, when baptized, often calls itself faithfulness.

So the frightened church begins to reach for tools Jesus refused.

A throne.

A sword.

A spectacle.

A scapegoat.

A strongman.

A law that can accomplish what love has not yet persuaded.

A state that can enforce what the Spirit has not yet formed.

A leader who promises to defend Christ, as though Christ ever asked Peter to keep swinging after Gethsemane.

This is how the prayer becomes an empire.

The early church cried, “Come, Lord Jesus,” because it knew that Caesar was not Lord. The Maranatha Empire cries, “Come, Lord Jesus,” because it wants Caesar to become useful.

The early church broke bread in homes. The Maranatha Empire builds platforms and calls them altars.

The early church welcomed the stranger. The Maranatha Empire sees the stranger as a threat.

The early church died rather than kill. The Maranatha Empire kills and calls the dead collateral damage in the defense of righteousness.

The early church believed the Lamb had conquered. The Maranatha Empire keeps looking for a beast strong enough to protect the Lamb.

And there is the blasphemy.

Not that empire rejects Christ outright. That would be too honest. The Maranatha Empire does something more dangerous. It uses Christ as decoration for a power that is fundamentally afraid of the cross.

It sings of the Lamb while trusting the dragon.

It preaches resurrection while organizing itself around survival.

It displays the cross while despising weakness.

It quotes Jesus while ignoring the people Jesus told us to notice: the poor, the imprisoned, the hungry, the foreigner, the enemy, the child, the wounded man beside the road.

The Maranatha Empire is not built by atheists. It is built by believers who have lost patience with the way of Jesus.

For the way of Jesus is slow.

It is seed, yeast, salt, light.

It is foot-washing.

It is forgiveness seventy times seven.

It is refusing the shortcut of domination even when domination appears efficient.

It is telling Peter to put away the sword when everything in Peter’s body screams that this is the moment for holy violence.

It is standing before Pilate and saying, “My kingdom is not from this world,” not because the kingdom has nothing to do with the world, but because it does not come by the world’s methods.

The Maranatha Empire cannot tolerate this.

It cannot tolerate a Messiah who will not seize power.

It cannot tolerate a church that would rather be faithful than influential.

It cannot tolerate a people whose politics begin at the basin and towel.

It cannot tolerate enemy-love, because enemy-love ruins the machinery. Empire requires enemies. It needs them. It feeds on them. Without enemies, the crowd might look too closely at the throne.

So, the Maranatha Empire manufactures urgency.

There is no time to love.

No time to listen.

No time to discern.

No time for reconciliation.

No time for peacemaking.

No time to ask whether the means resemble the Christ we claim to serve.

The hour is late, they say. The danger is great. The stakes are too high. We must act now. We must take control now. We must win now.

And somewhere beneath all that urgency is a terrible confession:

They do not actually believe the Lord is coming.

Or, if he is coming, they do not trust him to arrive in the right way.

So they build him an empire to inherit.

But Christ does not inherit empires.

He judges them.

He walks in alleyways, not palaces. He asks whether the churches have kept their first love. He warns those who are rich and comfortable and self-satisfied that they may be poor, blind, and naked. He stands at the door and knocks, not because he has been defeated by secularism, but because religious people have locked him outside while holding meetings in his name.

The Maranatha Empire is always shocked when Jesus is found outside the gate.

Outside the camp.

Outside respectability.

Outside the approved narrative.

Outside the walls with the crucified, the excluded, the unclean, the inconvenient, and the condemned.

The empire expected him in the capital.

But he is with the refugees.

The empire expected him in the cathedral of victory.

But he is with the mother of the disappeared.

The empire expected him on the reviewing stand.

But he is washing feet in the basement.

The empire expected him to bless the troops.

But he is asking why his followers are still carrying swords.

This is why Maranatha must remain a dangerous prayer.

It must never be allowed to become a slogan for conquest. It must never be printed on the banners of those who are unwilling to be converted by the One they summon. To pray “Come, Lord” is not to invite divine endorsement of our projects. It is to invite judgment upon them.

Come, Lord, and judge our churches.

Come, Lord, and judge our flags.

Come, Lord, and judge our markets.

Come, Lord, and judge our weapons.

Come, Lord, and judge our sermons.

Come, Lord, and judge our secret hatreds.

Come, Lord, and judge the ways we have used your name to avoid your way.

This is the prayer empire cannot honestly pray.

Because if the Lord comes, the first thing to fall may not be our enemies.

It may be our idols.

The algorithm.

The nation.

The party.

The brand.

The gun.

The strongman.

The myth of innocence.

The lie that we can harm others for a righteous cause and remain untouched by the harm.

The Maranatha Empire teaches us to fear the collapse of Christian influence.

Jesus teaches us to fear gaining the world and losing our soul.

The Maranatha Empire asks, “How do we take back the culture?”

Jesus asks, “Can you drink the cup that I drink?”

The Maranatha Empire says, “Blessed are the winners.”

Jesus says, “Blessed are the meek.”

The Maranatha Empire says, “Blessed are the forceful, for they shall secure the future.”

Jesus says, “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.”

And perhaps this is the word for us now:

The church does not need to become more powerful.

The church needs to become more faithful.

Not passive. Not silent. Not withdrawn into pious irrelevance. But faithful in the particular, cruciform, stubborn way of Jesus. Faithful enough to resist evil without becoming its mirror. Faithful enough to tell the truth without hatred. Faithful enough to protect the vulnerable without worshiping violence. Faithful enough to build communities of economic sharing, hospitality, forgiveness, courage, and joy. Faithful enough to be a people who can live without controlling the outcome.

That is the hard part.

Empire is attractive because it promises control.

Jesus offers communion.

Empire promises security.

Jesus offers peace.

Empire promises victory over enemies.

Jesus offers reconciliation that may begin with our repentance.

Empire promises to make us great.

Jesus invites us to become small enough to enter the kingdom.

So, let the Maranatha Empire fall.

Let it fall first in us.

Let it fall in every place where we have confused anxiety with zeal. Let it fall where we have preferred dominance to witness. Let it fall where we have wanted laws to do what discipleship would not. Let it fall where we have used the suffering of others as fuel for our own righteousness. Let it fall where we have asked Jesus to come only after we have arranged the throne to our liking.

And when it falls, may something older and more beautiful remain.

A table.

A basin.

A towel.

A loaf.

A cup.

A people gathered without illusion, without empire, without the need to be impressive, whispering the ancient prayer not as conquerors but as witnesses:

Maranatha.

Come, Lord Jesus.

Come not to crown our domination, but to free us from it.

Come not to baptize our fear, but to cast it out.

Come not to make our empire holy, but to teach us again that your kingdom comes like a seed, like yeast, like mercy, like a Lamb who was slain and yet lives.

And until you come, make us faithful.

Not imperial.

Not triumphant.

Not afraid.

Faithful.

“My cell phone is my only individual zone, just for me.”
― Sherry Turkle

#Bot #Quote #Discipleship #Idolatry #Technology

Wet Feet

There is something almost comical about it at first. I took the dog to the park because I knew I would be away for pastors’ Bible study. The grass was wet. My sneakers got soaked. I went home, changed my socks, and thought I had solved the problem. Then on the hour drive I realized my feet were getting wet again, because of course the shoes themselves were still wet. So now, during Bible study, my feet have been wet. Damp. Cool. Probably getting more shriveled by the hour.

Yet somehow it feels fitting.

Not dramatic. Not grand. Just fitting.

I think of the phrase “getting my feet wet,” as though ministry, faith, and discipleship are things I ease into gradually, carefully, at a manageable depth. But some days it doesn’t feel like that. Some days it feels more like simply having wet feet and carrying on. Not preparation for service, not a metaphor about a faithful beginning, but the thing itself. Wet feet. A small discomfort that stays with me. A quiet bodily reminder that I am not moving through the day untouched.

And sitting here, I cannot help but think of Jesus washing feet.

Not the polished image of it. Not the sentimental church painting version. But the actual strangeness of it. Wet feet. Dirty feet. Vulnerable feet. Tired feet. The feet that carried dust, ache, story, and status. The Lord kneeling with basin and towel. The Most High God attending to what is lowest. Not avoiding the human mess, but stooping into it.

Maybe there is something right about reflecting on servant life while sitting in damp shoes.

Because service is rarely abstract. It is seldom dry and comfortable. It does not usually happen in pristine conditions, after everything has been neatly changed and arranged. Often it is inconvenient. Often it lingers. Often I think I have addressed the problem, only to discover the wetness has seeped through again. I change the socks, but the shoes are still soaked. I try to reset myself, but the deeper discomfort remains.

That, too, may be part of ministry.

I carry wetness with me. The sorrows of others. The unfinished conversations. The burdens that seep through. The humble tasks nobody notices. The little irritations that become, strangely, occasions of grace. And maybe part of following Jesus is not always finding a way to stay dry, but learning how to keep loving with wet feet.

Jesus washed feet not because feet are noble, but because they are ordinary. Necessary. Exposed. Human. He met his friends there, at ground level. And then he told them to do likewise.

So perhaps wet feet are not the worst thing.

Perhaps they are a reminder.

A reminder that I am not above the ground.
A reminder that discipleship is tactile.
A reminder that love kneels.
A reminder that service is not clean.
A reminder that holiness may sometimes smell like damp shoes and feel like wrinkled skin.

In some ways, it seems fitting to go through this day with wet feet.
Maybe, in some ways, it seems right to go through life that way too.

Not just getting my feet wet,
but having them wet—
as one who follows the Christ
who washed feet,
and who still seems to meet me there,
down low,
with basin,
with towel,
with love.