John Stott: A life well lived

To witness the way the non-Christian world is marking the life and passing of John Stott --http://www.nytimes.com/2011/07/31/opinion/sunday/kristof-evangelicals-without-blowhards.html?hp --

is affirmation that a life marked by humility, love and service is a clearer representation of the character of God than any culture warrior can ever be.  Stott managed to hold together devotion to Christ, respect for the authority of Scripture, concern for the poor, a voice on pressing issues of the day without a partisan identity, and a rejection of materialism in an age of excess.  His life and work remind us that the Gospel is indeed good news, and when preached and lived in its fullness it transforms the poor, the outcast, and the brokenness in our fallen world. 

Through the years, he was often in our parish church in Falls Church, Virginia, and I had the occasion to hear him preach there.  Once I was invited to a small lunch with Stott in the Senate Member's Dining Room in the Capitol with a few friends who also worked in the Senate.  I don't remember a lot of the substance of that day, but I will never forget the humility and graciousness of this esteemed scholar and theologian as he sat for lunch with a few young, eager American Hill staffers.  And I recall the way in which he cared about important issues of our day but seemed so far above any kind of partisanship.  Looking back, it is easy to see how his first love was Christ and his loyalty was to the Gospel and its claims far and above any earthly power, system, or political party.  It wasn't that these things didn't matter, it was just that they seemed to be held in perfect perspective.  I've since read a number of his books and commentaries on Scripture.  "The Cross of Christ" has become a yearly Lenten devotional for me.  Nothing has influenced my understanding of the kingdom of God and the proper meaning of sharing the Gospel like "Christian Mission in the Modern World."  And I have been blessed to be a part of a congregation that lived this out in a way that I could see and experience long before I ever read this book.  So much so that by the time I read it, I said "that's it!"  That's what we've been doing all these years.  And for this I am grateful to both John Stott and to his friend and my own pastor, John Yates.  

Leadership matters.  Because we see so much "through a glass darkly" as the Apostle Paul tells us (and my friend Steve Garber so often reminds me), examples are essential.  John Stott showed us a life so devoted to the claims of the Gospel that we caught a glimpse of how the transformative power of Christ could work in us to live out those impossible claims of the Sermon on the Mount.  Thanks be to God for his faithfulness and for raising up John Stott in our age. 

Reconciliation is Possible

Last week in Little Rock, I took my teenage son and my nephew through the Central High museum viewing the artifacts and hearing the stories of a world so unlike their own as to be unrecognizable: a world of separate schools, water fountains, restaurants, and theaters, all legally and socially enforced; of cruelty and visceral hatred; of the mistreatment and abuse of children because of the color of their skin; of a world in which injustice and unfairness were normative. 

To visit Little Rock Central High School is to see the pain of the past, the depth to which ordinary people can sink when hatred and self-righteousness take deep roots in human hearts.  But to visit there is also to see that transformations take place; hearts and minds can be changed; and redemption is real.  We've all seen the photo of Elizabeth Eckford, wearing dark glasses to hide the tears in her eyes, while an angry mob of her white peers follows her threateningly.  An angry young girl is on her heels, yelling at Elizabeth with an expression of intense hatred.  A child of God who has allowed herself to be a channel for invective and evil.  But if you go to the gift shop in the museum you can purchase a small print of Elizabeth Eckford 40 years later standing in front of Central HS with a white woman, and both are smiling.  Inset in the bottome corner is that same black and white photo from 1957.  The larger image those many years later after that angry young white woman grew to adulthood and repented of her misdeeds.  She called Elizabeth and asked to see her to seek her forgiveness.  One word graces the bottom of the print, and it's a beautiful word:  Reconciliation.

Once again, landing in Tel Aviv

I've just returned to Tel Aviv and processed through Ben Gurion International Airport. This visit will mark my eleventh trip to the Holy Land in the past eighteen months.  Each journey to this place is a remarkable experience, an immersion into beautiful and ancient cultures, good food and warm hospitality, and encounters with authentic peacemakers.  And yet these are blended often in equal measure with the weightiness of human depravity and fallenness, with real pain, suffering and fear, and with the lingering consequences of violence and injustice.  And then there are the occasional moments of spiritual insight and communion with the God of history.  But as N.T. Wright has said, there’s a sort of spiritual residue in these places, a lingering sense of the divine and miraculous here.

Each trip affords an opportunity to introduce more Americans to the people who inspire me, to those who live in the midst of conflict and yet, like my friend Daoud Nassar, refuse to be enemies.  To those who pursue justice and devote themselves to creating flourishing societies that respect the dignity of all.  So often the images of the Holy Land we have in our mind are of violence and hate, suffering and despair.  And God knows that this land has seen its share of these things. But in the crucible of the modern conflict many have eschewed despair, resisted the desire to exact revenge, and imagined that a better world can be achieved through the dogged pursuit of justice, truth, and peace for all. So to return again and again, as wearying as it can be on my family and on me, is a way to offer encouragement of their work and affirmation of the difficult choices they have made for the sake of peace. 

The Banality of Evil

I took a group of new friends to Yad Vashem today.  The tour guide remembered me from previous visits and suggested I might instead want to see a new exhibit devoted to the arrest and trial of Adolph Eichmann rather another visit to the Holocaust History Museum.  And so, on a day when the history hall was crowded to capacity, I set off for a section of the auditorium and in near solitude contemplated the personification of what Hannah Arendt famously termed "the banality of evil."

All the details of Eichmann's capture and arrest by Mossad agents in Argentenia in 1961 were there.  Hand drawn plans of the raid, photos of his modest and rural home outside Buenos Aires, and the ID card he was issued to work in the local  Mercedes Benz plant.  The contents of his pocket the night he was apprehended.  It was all there.

But the most chilling part was seeing the man himself in archival footage of his testimony from his trail.  He was entirely unremorseful, behaving as if the though of apologizing for the deaths of so many had never occurred to him.  Unrepentant to the end, he spoke of the deaths of women and children with a chilling detachment.  Taking no responsibility for his actions, he was "just following orders."

At one point Eichmann likened himself to Pontius Pilate, caught in an unwinnable situation.  But he professed no hatred, nor showed any emotion aside from a nervous contortion of his face on occasion.  He demonstrated no ideological bent, either grand or depraved.  He may have had one, but the defense he offered was little more than to say he did what he was instructed as if there is absolution in blind obedience.  As Arendt observed when she covered the trial for the New Yorker,  Eichmann seemed not a lunatic, not even a monster or an evil villain, but more a tragically deficient man who refused to assume any responsibility for his own actions.

The Sheykh Wore Silver Shoes

Today we visited the Bedouin village of Umm el-Hierin the Negev Desert in southern Israel.  Although it's definitely a village, you won't find it on GoogleMaps, nor on any other map.  It's what's known as an unrecognized village, of which there are many in the Negev.  There are also a handful of recognized villages there.  So what difference does it make to the Bedouin, except for the fact that no one can get Mapquest directions to come see you? Unrecognized villages are not allowed access to running water, electricity or sewage services.  They are citizens of Israel.  Though not compulsory, many of their sons serve in the Israeli army.  But they must choose between abandoning their ancestral lands or living without basic services.  In our meeting with the head of the village, we found a warm and gregarious man who was deeply frustrated by his plight, yet didn't portray bitterness.  When asked questions about his views on regional events in Egypt, Tunisia, and elsewhere, or when pressed on his position on West Bank and Gaza Palestinians, he demurred, refusing to be drawn in to larger issues. He is staking his entire claim on the fact that his family has lived and farmed in this area for 500 years and that he is now a full citizen of the State of Israel, and as such he is entitled to the same rights and responsibilities of all citizens, regardless of race, religion or ethnicity.  He wants to clean water, electricity, and a flush toilet for himself, his family, and the people of his village.  Makes sense to me. 

Des hommes et des dieux--see it if you can

At long last I was finally able to see Of Gods and Men, the award winning French film from 2010 that is in limited release in the US now.  This is the amazing film story, based on real people and real events, of Trappist monks living in a monastery in rural Algeria, serving the local villagers and living in community with them as well as with each other. As the storm of the Algerian war gathers around them they are threatened by Islamist militants and suspected by corrupt military officials, and prudence and common sense would direct them to flee.  But as we see them grapple with this decision, we are privy to quiet ruminations on what it means to belong to God and do his work in the world.  At one point one of the monks reminds another that their mission "is to be brothers to all."  And we see them sustained by the daily and seasonal liturgies and practices that are rich in meaning and steeped in truth. As someone drawn to ancient and historic Christian practice, I found these scenes moving and beautiful. See it if you can.

A Truth Revealed

I once was an Ian McEwan fan.  His most famous novel, Atonement, speaks of our deep need for forgiveness.  It’s the story of a woman who, as a child, committed a selfish and spiteful act of deception which set in motion a devastating chain of events that severed family ties and destroyed the lives of people she cared about. Most unsettling is the way the story takes place in a world where her sin cannot be atoned for and the protagonist is left to reconcile her misdeeds by creating an alternative history of events, in which the adversity and trauma caused by her own actions is not fatal.  A happy ending is engineered, but in the final pages we are left to swallow the bitter pill of an unforgiving universe where some sins can never be forgiven. 

After Atonement, I read other McEwan novels, and was always taken by both his prose and his storytelling.  I was particularly moved by the haunting and simple Saturday, an account of a single harrowing day in the life of a family in post-Sept. 11 London.  But eventually, I grew weary with McEwan’s work gifted though he is.  His view of the world seemed too bleak, the weight of the darkness too heavy.

I would venture that this worldview grows out of his own belief about the role of religion in public life. Painting with a broad brush, he has been quoted as saying “Faith is at best morally neutral, and at worst a vile mental distortion. Our habits are to respect people of faith, but I think we’ve been forced to question those habits. The powers of sweet reason look a lot more attractive post-9/11 than the beckonings of faith, and I no longer put them on equal scales.”  My disagreements with these sweeping conclusions are too numerous to mention in this writing, but they do help explain his gloomy view of the world. 

But I was intrigued by his reaction to being awarded a prestigious prize at the annual Jerusalem International Book Fair.  It’s fashionable in contemporary Britain, and in much of Europe, amongst left-wing academics and artists to identify with the Palestinian cause in a way that is very one-sided. Boycotts are encouraged and visits to Israel are frowned upon. McEwan came under pressure to refuse a trip to Israel to receive the award, but he chose another path. 

In defending his decision to receive the honor in Jerusalem, he argued for engagement with those with whom you disagree.  And he most caught my attention when he observed, "I don't think Israel can prosper unless Palestine prospers."  An astute observation, and one that is equally true in the converse.  Israel cannot prosper until Palestine prospers, and Palestine cannot prosper until Israel prospers.  This is a truth many would rather avoid. But a solution to the long-running conflict can only be found in acknowledging both sides nationalistic claims and the deep and historic connections all three Abrahamic faith communities have to a place they each deem holy.  It further requires recognizing the legitimate needs of both Palestinians and Israelis to attain at least proximate justice, to live in peace and security, and to have their inherent dignity respected by the other.  

The novelist is at his best when he circumvents the ideological and other debris that clutter our hearts and minds and reveals to us a truth about ourselves and the world we live in.  McEwan endeavors to do this with his work, and he writes thoughtfully of the human experience, though in the end his readers are often left with a profound sense of meaningless and despair.  But in recognizing the interconnectedness of Israelis and Palestinians, he glimpses a vision of a more flourishing world built on mutuality, and in this he reveals to us an important truth.