Even the Dogs

The Canaanite woman’s faith is a perennial example (Matthew 15:21-28). People throughout time call upon God for healing, and speak truth to the Powers that get in the way. With modern threats of nuclear action, the spectre of white supremacy, and chronic domestic violence against women, it is clear that we are in need of this faith so that we might be healed, both collectively and personally. The words “Lord, have mercy,” and “even the dogs eat in the master’s house” are both rooted in a sure and certain hope that God’s promises are irrevocable (Romans 11:29).

The Canaanite woman is not named—so let’s call her Tamara, after one of Jesus’ Canaanite ancestors, Tamar. Tamara is desperate, and she comes to Jesus pleading on behalf of her daughter. Tamara’s daughter is also unnamed—let’s call her Ruby, after Ruth, another one of Jesus’ Canaanite ancestors. Ruby is tormented by a demon. Unfortunately, after Tamara’s plea, Jesus stays silent.

There is a man who lives in a local park where I live. I think he struggles with mental illness because sometimes he is calm, quiet, and kind, but other times he is loud, angry, and mean. I usually don’t know how to respond to him, so I often stay silent. I wonder if Jesus stayed silent because he also didn’t know how to respond.

Tamara doesn’t accept silence from Jesus. She insists that her daughter, Ruby, deserves healing, just like the Israelites. “Even the dogs, Jesus; even the dogs…” she says. In most stories, it’s Jesus who comes up with the spiritual aikido to throw his partners off-balance. But in this story, it’s the reverse. Jesus is pinned to the ground by an unexpected opponent.

One of the things I love about biblical interpretation is that there are so many angles of entry. We are the Ruby-s in this story, ourselves possessed by demons. We are the Tamaras, pleading wholeheartedly on behalf of others. And yes, we are the Christ-people, who forget for a time that our Christ-calling is much larger than we thought.

We are neighbors meeting neighbors across borders, just as Jesus and Tamara were. This neighbor-lens is the primary lens of interpretation in this reading. Through these old words, we learn again that God heals, that our borders often get in the way of God’s healing, and that it’s usually the other who shows us the way to Jesus.

This Israelite-Canaanite neighbor dynamic is interesting. These people-groups are neighbors with a lot of baggage. This baggage certainly influenced the interaction between Jesus and Tamara, and it can shape what we take away from the story today. For example, in Deuteronomy 20:16, Moses explains the rules of war as they apply to the Canaanites. “But as for [the Canaanites],” he says, “...you must not let anything that breathes remain alive.” Yikes! Is there, today, any group of people we would like to see exterminated? Be honest. Or maybe we ourselves belong to a group of people that others want exterminated…

Moses’ command for genocide in the name of God is a sin, and it does not make for good community; it is not the will of God on earth as it is in heaven. Likewise, the doctrine of Manifest Destiny, which justified genocide against Indigenous Peoples in the Americas, and still fuels the undercurrents of white nationalism today is a sin, and is not the will of God. Given this history of genocide, there was most certainly bad blood between the Israelites and the Canaanites. While Jesus was temporarily fooled by this bad blood, Tamara was not…

In addition to genocide, there was also a surprising pattern of healing between these Israelite and Canaanite neighbors. Jesus would have been consistent within his own prophetic tradition if he had healed Ruby right away. Elijah healed the widow’s son from Zarephath, a territory of Sidon, in the land of Canaan (1 Kings 17:17-24). Elisha healed Naaman, an enemy military commander (2 Kings 5:1-14). Think of Doctors Without Borders today, an organization who will go anywhere to heal others—no matter the political realities. When Jesus healed Ruby, he was being consistent with Israel’s tradition of healing—that is, after he got reminded by Tamara of his calling.

So the Israelites and Canaanites fought each other, and they healed each other. It turns out, they also cooperated economically. For example, during the time of Solomon, wood and labor for the construction of the temple in Jerusalem came from Tyre and Sidon in the land of Canaan. The cedars of Lebanon that built the Lord’s temple, they came from Tamara’s backyard. This story of Jesus, Tamara, and Ruby is certainly a neighbor-story, sort of like the Good Samaritan. And just like the Israelites aren’t the heroes in the parable of the Good Samaritan, Jesus and his apostles aren’t the sheroes in this story either. Tamara the Canaanite is.

Tamara is “turning the other cheek” in quintessential Jesus fashion. Jesus implies that the Canaanites are dogs. Tamara takes the slap and turns the other cheek, saying, “Okay, that may be. And how does that change your calling to heal the universe?”

Marginalized communities often do this; they take the language of rejection—the names, the insults, the silences—and they appropriate them, thereby robbing them of their power. This is a fundamental principle of nonviolence. One example is the term queer, which originally just meant strange, but then came to be used as a derogatory slur. It has since been reclaimed by those who can now say with pride, “Yes, I am queer. Even queer people eat in the master’s house.” Likewise, 500 years ago, there were some pesky religious reformers who just wouldn’t shut up. They were called “Lutherans”. But that name was appropriated, neutralized, and transformed in order to strengthen, rather than weaken, the marginalized group. “Yes, I am Lutheran. And even the Lutherans eat in the master’s house.” Tamara says, “Dogs? Okay, dogs then. Even the dogs eat in the master’s house. What else you got, Jesus?”

Jesus suddenly snaps out of his ethnocentric stupor. It’s not that Jesus was an ethno-supremacist. It’s that he was human—fully human. As all humans are prone to limited perspectives and forgetfulness, so was Jesus. Being human isn’t sinful; encountering truth and rejecting it is. Jesus, our Savior, submitted to the wisdom of a foreign woman in a deeply patriarchal culture, recognizing in her the truth that sets people free (John 8:32). Richard Rohr describes this transformation eloquently when he says, “Ideas don’t change people, only an encounter with the other changes people.” Jesus encounters the other in Tamara, and he is changed, understanding more of who he was meant to be.

We learn from this story that God heals, that borders often get in the way of that healing (whether the borders be physical or political, real or imagined), and we learn that when we encounter the other, we are changed; we are reminded of who we were always meant to be. Paul tells the Romans what Tamara tells Jesus: God’s promises are irrevocable. Healing is what God does because healing is who God is.

As a Lutheran, I ask that famous catechism question, “What does this mean for us?” Perhaps it means for us that Kim Jong-Un and Donald Trump will speak not as Israelites and Canaanites caught in the web of age-old animosity or chest-thumping antagonism, but out of an awareness that we are all neighbors on a finite home. When we encounter the other, saying yes to healing across borders, saying yes to God’s irrevocable promises, saying yes to our deep, divine calling, and saying no to cyclical violence, the threat of nuclear war simply disappears from the earth. We are all dogs who eat in the master’s house.

Perhaps this story means for us that US-Mexican economic relations will soon be characterized not by the exploitation of agricultural labor, an undercutting of economies under the guise of “free trade,” or a denial of legal protection for migrants, but instead by mutual benefit. Just as the cedars of Lebanon helped build God’s temple in Jerusalem, maybe the pines of Michoacán and Alabama can help build the Lord’s temple in both countries, instead of the caskets of immigrants who die in the desert while searching for a better life. When we say yes to God’s economy and no to the economics of exploitation, we build international neighborhoods based on interdependence and mutuality.

Perhaps this story means that we are baptized into the prophetic tradition of God, healing across borders, confronting addiction and other demons, speaking truth to power, like Elijah, like Elisha, like Tamara, and like Jesus. When we “go where the need is greatest,” like Doctors Without Borders, healing souls despite the prejudices of society, we see God healing among us.

Perhaps this story means that we are beloved even in the prison of our addictions. When we admit our powerlessness over the demons inside, we encounter the Power who crosses all boundaries for the sake of our healing. This admission is the cross of Jesus.

Let us say with confidence and in good company, “Lord, have mercy. Even the dogs eat the scraps that fall from your table.”

Amen.

Praying in Sighs

1 Kings 3:5-13

Romans 8:26-39

We do not know how to pray as we ought, but the Spirit prays for us with sighs too deep for words. God is for us, and there’s nothing that can separate us from this love, not even our inability to pray. Pause from reading this and sit quietly for one minute, listening for the Spirit’s prayer on our behalf. Sighs of exhaustion, contentment, or boredom are all welcome. If your mind wanders—which it will—simply put a name to the thought that is passing through, and then gently return to the present moment, listening again for the Spirit. For example, you might say to yourself, “I’m thinking about food,” and then gently say to yourself, “return to the present moment.” Do this now.

“We do not know how to pray as we ought, so the Spirit prays for us.” Thanks be to God for that. I would guess that many people feel they don’t know how to pray as they ought. Perhaps we don’t pray as often as we’d like, or we find ourselves saying bad words about our enemies instead of good words. Or maybe we just find that despite our best efforts and intentions, we are still captive to sin and cannot free ourselves.

But we need to pray, and we can take comfort in the Spirit who helps us in our weakness. When we can’t, the Spirit can. When we won’t, the Spirit will.

Our prayer of quiet listening earlier was a Solomon prayer. Solomon knew about this need for prayer. He knew God would help him in his weakness, and would give him an understanding mind to discern between good and evil. We typically hear leaders boast about their abilities rather than their weaknesses. We typically hear about their unquestionable judgment, rather than their need for discernment between good and evil. If we only vote for them, so the message goes, we will surely see a new day dawn.

But God praises Solomon for his humility; he doesn’t ask for riches, a long life, or his enemies’ lives. Solomon even resists asking for a gerrymandered political district to ensure continued election. It’s as though Solomon has a friendship through time with Paul the Apostle. He knows that he cannot pray as he ought, and he also knows that the Spirit will pray on his behalf so that he can discern between good and evil.

When we pray the Solomon prayer of silence and stillness, we are more likely to overhear the Spirit’s gentle urgings, her sighs too deep for words, directing us toward what is good. When the world’s leaders pray the Solomon prayer, there will be less suffering for everyone. Catholic theologian Blaise Pascal put the sentiment this way four centuries ago: “All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.”

We desperately need leaders and citizens who know how to discern between good and evil. As the world heats up—both literally and figuratively—we need to remember how to pray.

Solomon asks for prayer-help from the Spirit so that he can govern Israel. He says, “Although I am only a child, I am in the midst of your people; give me an understanding mind to discern between good and evil so that I may govern your people.” What if all the world’s leaders prayed in this way?

Paul assures us that the Spirit will intercede for us, that God is for us. But this is no guarantee we will discern rightly. Many evil things have been done under the disguise of good.  As Paul says, “I find it to be a law that when I want to do what is good, evil is close at hand” (Romans 7:21).

We discern good from evil better not only when we ask for help, and when we sit quietly to listen, but also when we know who Paul was talking to. He writes, “Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will hardship, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? No… for I am convinced that nothing in creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” Paul is writing to those who are experiencing these various sufferings. He is not writing to the Roman authorities. He is not writing to the powerful, but to the powerless.

He is writing for people who can’t afford lobbyists, for people who work three minimum wage jobs to make ends meet, for people who fear for their own safety when entering a public restroom that actually corresponds with their own gender identity. When we consider the reality of social privilege while reading the Bible, we are better able to discern good from evil.

But unfortunately, Paul’s words—particularly the words “God is for us”—have sadly been used as a justification by the powerful, instead of as a reassurance for the powerless, and this is problematic because it keeps us from our best discernment, and leads to great violence.

One example of how Paul’s words “God is for us” have been misappropriated is from the Kountze High School cheerleaders just outside of Houston. The cheerleaders made signs a few years ago for the football team to run through at the beginning of the Friday night game; one of the signs read, “If God is for us, who can be against us?” I doubt Paul had high school football in mind when he wrote to the Romans 2,000 years ago. Likewise, there were most certainly Christians on both sides of the gridiron those nights in east Texas. No, God is not a fan of the Kountze Lions, specifically. To claim that God is for us over and against others is one of the first steps toward genocide. And while it might seem like a long way between high school football and genocide, the distance may not be as far as we’d like to think.

For example, another misuse of Paul’s message is a bumper sticker I’ve seen that says, “God bless our troops; especially our snipers.” The problem with this bumper sticker is similar to the football banner from Kountze HS. It’s not that God does not desire peace and justice throughout the land; the problem is that the “us” is simply too small. Paul the Apostle was not from the United States, nor was Jesus a military leader. The way of Jesus undermines violence; it does not promote it. Heaven has no standing military.

Another, more horrendous misunderstanding of Paul’s claim that “God is for us” is the Pequot War of 1636-38 in present day Connecticut, nearly 150 years before the United States was the United States. To put it simply, English settler-colonists wanted land that was already occupied. The Pequot tribe was all but wiped out in the ensuing war, and the Pequot tribe had already quit fighting when the following scene took place. William Bradford wrote this account in his “History of Plymouth Plantation:”

Those that scaped the fire were slaine with the sword; some hewed to peeces, others rune throw with their rapiers, so as they were quickly dispatchte, and very few escaped. It was conceived they thus destroyed about 400 at this time. It was a fearful sight to see them thus frying in the fyer, and the streams of blood quenching the same, and horrible was the stincke and sente there of, but the victory seemed a sweete sacrifice, and they gave the prayers thereof to God, who had wrought so wonderfully for them, thus to inclose their enemise in their hands, and give them so speedy a victory over so proud and insulting an enimie (emphasis added, from Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz, An Indigenous Peoples' History of the United States).

Where was the discernment on behalf of the Pequot? Where was the discernment on behalf of those experiencing hardship, distress, persecution, famine, nakedness, peril, and the sword? Where was the discernment on behalf of the immigrants who were suffocated to death in the back of a smuggling truck in San Antonio last week?

Until we admit (as Solomon did) that we are but children, until we admit that victory over our enemies isn’t the highest prize, until we admit that we don’t always know the difference between good and evil, we will continue to lead God’s people astray. Until we realize (as Paul realized) that we “don’t know how to pray as we ought,” we will continue to commit genocide and win football games in the name of God.

But when we pray together in silence, when we listen for the Spirit’s intercession, when we humble ourselves enough to ask for an understanding mind to discern between good and evil, we learn again the good news that God is for us. When we pray, despite not knowing how, we see again that the Spirit intercedes for us, and the “us” is everybody, and nothing can separate "the everybody” from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. Amen.

Slicing the Times

Come mothers and fathers
Throughout the land
And don’t criticize
What you can’t understand
Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command
Your old road is rapidly agin’
Please get out of the new one if you can’t lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin’

"I have not come to bring peace, but a sword. I have come to set a man against his father, a woman against her mother," says Jesus (Mt 10:34-35). Christians have a disruptive calling from God.

God’s call disrupts the world because God desires just a few things that are simple—but not easy—to obtain: good news for the poor, cures for the sick, release for the captives, recovery of sight for the blind, freedom for the oppressed. Instead, the poor get mostly bad news, the sick are denied healthcare coverage, the captives remain imprisoned, the blind are themselves unseen, and the oppressed are too busy working three minimum wage jobs to get out from under the hard yoke and heavy burden of this “healthy” economy. But God is not satisfied with this, and she’s ready to disrupt the world. The times they are a changin’.

The church exists as God’s longing for a just and peaceful world, and it is called by God to be a disruption for justice and peace. The Christian baptismal covenant explicitly includes a commitment to work for peace and justice (ELW, pg. 228, Rite of Baptism). We die in baptism to sin, and are reborn to grace. The church is God’s longing for a just and peaceful world. Chew on that for awhile.

It’s easy to hear in Matthew's text a justification for violence: I have not come to bring peace but a sword, to set a man against his father and a woman against her mother. Whatever cause you support, surely Jesus wants you to use whatever means necessary—even violence—to get it, right? Guess again. In a time of increasing extremism, it’s important to set passages such as these in their context.

First, Jesus calls us to love God with our whole selves, to love our neighbors as ourselves. He tells his disciple to put away his sword in the Garden of Gethsemane, that those who live by the sword will also die by it. When we read this passage in light of what we know about Jesus, we conclude that he is most certainly not justifying violent extremism.

Second, this gospel passage is part of Jesus’ first commissioning of the disciples. He is sending them “like sheep among wolves” and their task is to “cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, [and] cast out demons” (Mt. 10:8); they are to proclaim the good news that “the kingdom of heaven has come near” (Mt. 10:7). If they are not welcomed in a home, they are to move onto the next place, rather than force themselves on anyone. This sword that Jesus brings is powerful, but it is not a sword of violence.

Third, New Testament scholar Norm Beck notes that 2,000 years ago, when the church was just starting, Christianity attracted mostly young people, not older people of the establishment (Beck, New Testament, pg. 193). When people would convert to Christianity, it oftentimes meant splitting with their families. If you’re familiar with the story Fiddler on the Roof, you recall that the third daughter ends up marrying a Christian. As a devout Jew, her father says that she has crossed the line and has split herself off from the family. This is perhaps similar to the reaction people in Matthew’s community had experienced when they came to know Jesus. Matthew’s community was writing about what had happened, not necessarily what would happen. The sword that Jesus brings is powerful, but it is not a sword of violence.

You’ve likewise probably been—or heard of—lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer people coming out to their families, only to be disowned; a daughter is turned against her mother.

You’ve likewise probably heard of a particular German youth who chose to be an Augustinian monk instead of a lawyer, much to his father’s chagrin; a son is turned against his father.

Jesus calls people, and people feel the sword of his call. Any time a person follows Jesus, disruption follows, because nothing stays the same when Jesus is involved. The times they are a changin’.

Jesus’ call doesn’t just disrupt nuclear families, it disrupts nations, too. This country is being disrupted in a subtle but profound way, and you might have noticed it. Jesus’ sword is reshaping how we tell our collective story. Not so much how we tell his-story, but her-story, our-story, their-story. Who would have thought that granting space for people’s stories to come out would be so threatening, so disruptive? For too long we have told ourselves that the United States is God’s country, forgetting the genocide, ecocide, and constant oppression that have paid the bill for this country’s expansion and “success.” But the times they are a-changin’.

Indigenous historian Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz summarizes the issue this way:

“Writing US history from an Indigenous peoples’ perspective requires rethinking the consensual national narrative. That narrative is wrong or deficient not in its facts, dates, or details but rather in its essence… How might acknowledging the reality of US history work to transform society” (Dunbar-Ortiz, An Indigenous Peoples' History of the United States, pg. 3)?

The time’s are a changin’ because people’s voices are rising, stories that have long laid dormant are thawing in the spring air. Black lives matter. The Spirit of the Earth is alive. The United States has the power and wealth it has because that power and wealth was stolen from the Earth and the Indigenous people who have lived here from time out of mind. When Jesus calls, disruption happens.

But if justice is Jesus’ call, why don’t people just go along with it, instead of resisting and causing so much trouble? Following Christ may be simple, but it is not easy.

Come senators, congressmen

Please heed the call

Don’t stand in the doorway

Don’t block up the hall

For he that gets hurt

Will be he who has stalled

There’s a battle outside

And it’s ragin’.

It’ll soon shake your windows

And rattle your walls

For the times they are a-changin’.

If Jesus calls for justice, why don’t people answer? Isn’t it simple? Here’s a Lutheran answer: those who resist Jesus’ call for justice are reading and writing these words: you and me. We are the sinners who stand in the way of God’s longing for justice and peace. And at the same time, we are called to be this justice and peace together, as saints who are unconditionally loved by this self-same Jesus. We are called to be the change God longs for in this world.

Annual Eucharist Service in El Paso/Ciudad Juarez

Here is an image of Jesus’ sword of justice, working powerfully in our sinful, saintly hands. Jesus’ people wield the sword of justice as it slices through sin right along the border of El Paso and Ciudad Juarez. Christians here gather together several times a year to share a holy meal across an invented political division that has torn families apart. "We did not cross the border," these families will say; "the border crossed us."

And now, God in Christ through the power of the Spirit slices a sword of love through that fabricated border fence. People come together to share a meal of communion across a fence, a communion that shines a bright light on our poverty of spirit. Jesus has not come to bring peace, but a sword. Let us wield this sword with courage, for the times they are a-changin’. Amen.

Blessed Are Those Who Mourn

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” -Mt. 5:4

Being human is—among other things—hard. We suffer losses, disappointments, and fears on a daily basis. Granted, life is easier for some than for others because of various types of privilege, but one common attribute we share is that sooner or later, we come to know this truth very personally: life is hard.

We live, however, in a culture that tries day in and day out to avoid the basic condition of suffering. Countless dollars are extorted from people through manipulative advertisements to help us forget how hard our lives are. And these dollars are consistent day after day, year after year, because forgetting is so tempting.

But 2,000 years ago, Jesus started his teaching ministry with some radical truths on a mountain top, and he wasn’t interested in teaching us to forget life’s difficulties. The beatitudes—as the gospel passage today is known—are crystallized, timeless messages. We could talk for years and never plumb the depths of meaning contained here, but let’s consider just one simple verse: “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.”

Jesus is not saying that those who mourn are blessed because they are mourning, in some sort of sadomasochistic way. And he’s not saying that the present mourning is okay because one day it will all be made better, in an other-worldly way. In other words, Jesus does not dismiss or diminish our hardships. He does not rush us through them or offer comfort and blessing as a substitute for the reality of human life. No, the depth of struggle in our lives cannot be short changed or sugar coated if we are to be whole people. Instead, Jesus is saying that when we have the courage to mourn—however long it may take—God will transform that mourning into blessing.

Jesus’ words are both timeless and timely because we live in a time when mourning is most certainly justified:

• Public political discourse is both shallow and divisive.
• Mistrust within communities is common.
• Economic inequality is increasing.
• Environmental destruction goes on unchecked.
• Messages about the inadequacy of our bodies and our worth are everywhere.

And yet, we have unparalleled ability to avoid, deny, and numb over the sufferings in our midst. We can oftentimes very effectively insulate ourselves from pain. Jesus’ words, “Blessed are those who mourn,” speak to us today in part because we have so many resources at our disposal to avoid the faithful response of mourning.

Mourning is a faithful response as Christians because it requires a basic trust that some other being actually exists who will dig out the clay of our pain, mold it, fire it, and then hand it back to us as a beautiful piece of pottery. This may take far longer than we would like, and the pottery may not be in the shape we had imagined. But believing that there is indeed a potter at work is faith at work in us.

Mourning is also a faithful response because there are so many alternatives, for example, revenge. I watched an episode of The Walking Dead recently because I was interested in a particular character. The character’s family had been murdered by a psychopath. He wanted to get revenge on the guy, so he built a cage, kidnapped the man, and locked him up. He then proceeded to starve the man to death. As he told his story to another character he concluded by saying, “You know, killing that man did not bring me peace. It was after that that I decided I would never kill again.” This man ultimately found his way to mourning, and experienced the blessed comfort that comes from God.

Another alternative to mourning is addiction. With addiction, some substance or sequence of behaviors takes the place of dealing with life on life’s terms. One of life’s terms is hardship, suffering, and the feelings that come with them. Consequently, some of the heart of recovery from addiction is the practice of acknowledging and experiencing one’s feelings, rather than covering over or avoiding them through the addictive behavior.

There was a 13th C Persian poet named Rumi who drives home this point about welcoming even the difficult feelings of our lives. In a poem called The Guest House, he says,

This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture,

still, treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out

for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice.

meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.

Be grateful for whatever comes.

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.

In the midst of our struggles—both collective and personal—it can be very difficult to see how mourning can be a helpful, much less an essential response. Mourning can seem passive, quietistic, disengaged. We are used to solving problems using a linear framework, which identifies causes and effects, isolates variables, etc… This is the methodology of science and there is much to be said for this way of engaging the world. But a great swath of human experience is misrepresented within a linear framework. Our lives are too complex, too interrelated. We need some guidance from people like Rumi, from the Walking Dead, and above all from Jesus, to show us the way.

There are many things to mourn in this world, many things that make life hard, and one of these things is the loss of healthy ecosystems, clean air, quiet spaces, flourishing oceans. The climate crisis has been on my mind recently because of governmental movements to further entrench the fossil-fuel industry into the heart of our economy. And yet, scientists the world over agree that we need to be using less, not more, fossil fuels if we are to have a chance at stabilizing global temperatures and thereby pass to our children a home that will thrive, or even survive. Recently, governmental scientists declared 2016 as the hottest year on record. Unfortunately, 2015 and 2014 were also the hottest years on record. When we mourn the losses of our ecosystem home, while trusting in God’s transformative power, a creative blessing will come.

In a context such as the global climate crisis, our linear, problem-solving minds find it hard to believe that the transformative power of God will take our mourning and create something beautiful. Perhaps this is the foolishness of the cross, of which Paul speaks.

The cross seems foolish because it appears to be impotent in the face of imperial Rome on Good Friday. But the cross is shown to be full of God’s transformative power on Easter Sunday. Without God’s life and promise, claiming that those who mourn are blessed becomes shallow and dismissive. It might sound like making space for mourning is passive, quietistic, or inconsequential, but the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus reveal that picking up the cross is anything but impotent.

Christ does not wish for us to forget the difficulties of life as so many deceptive advertisers do. Indeed, Jesus’ own life is filled with hardship, especially the hardship of abandonment, torture, and crucifixion. But God embraces our hardships, holding space for us to mourn, so that this planet home—and all its beings—will experience God’s creative, beautiful, blessing.