I follow Paul,
I follow Peter,
I follow Apollos,
I follow Christ.
So Paul famously describes the leader-based factions developing in the Corinthian church. Like many of you, I like to think that if I were there, I would be in that Group 4 that says, “I follow Christ.” Maybe Group 4 was earnest, maybe they were being snarky, or maybe they were peacemakers trying to center the factions around what was important (if they were like me, it’d be all three).
I found myself in Group 4 mode again this week as a fresh wave of op-eds, posts, and articles splashed across my feed recasting the evangelical identity crisis, the history of how the evangelical voting bloc “sold their soul” or how the “last temptation” for evangelicals resulted in them having lost their way. At least one article was right to point out that evangelicals (many of them) had principled reasons to vote for Trump that do not justify their being labeled racist or hate-filled (some, I grant are; many I know firsthand are not).
Of course, nothing new has emerged in this new rhetoric except that the brush used to re-paint history gets broader, the gesticulations at the surrounding socio-political chaos get wilder, and the finger pointing and blame casting all the more unfair. I am Progressive. I am Liberal. I am Conservative. I am Pro-Life. I am #MeToo. I am #ChurchToo. I am Evangelical. I am Ex-Evangelical. And still another, I follow Christ. I am of Christ.
Mere Christian platforms, as has been evident in our recent history, please very few people in these highly charged settings. To unite dividing parties around a merely Christian identity strikes many as too generic for bridge-building, or too anemic for a fully biblical worldview, or too banal for the pressing needs of the moment. Trusting Jesus isn’t going to stop bullets from pelting our school kids. Praying to Jesus isn’t going to curb abortion. And so we grow apart. We draw more lines in the sand, we establish more shibboleths to separate the wheat from the tares.
But Christ is not divided. And if we profess the faith, we are in him. I offer no answers. I write simply to invite churches toward a posture that conforms with the spirit of Lent: the posture of a servant.
The kings of the Gentiles exercise lordship over them, and those in authority over them are called benefactors. But not so with you. Rather, let the greatest among you become as the youngest, and the leader as one who serves. For who is the greater, one who reclines at table or one who serves? Is it not the one who reclines at table? But I am among you as the one who serves. (Luke 22:25–27 ESV)
No servant is greater than his master. The call to humble ourselves as a servant to others speaks to all believers in Jesus in this moment. Yes, evangelical Trump supporters are guilty of lording it over and seeking the places of honor, but so are his Christian opponents (evangelical or otherwise). Both sides are guilty of lording it over. We both seek the places of honor. Compared against the gospel stories, we often more resemble the detachment of the Pharisees, the outrage of Herod, or the caprice of the crowd; few of us wait for the Lord’s deliverance like Simeon and Anna; few serve others in despised humility; fewer still (at least in the West) lament with sorrow at oppression and injustice.
In his recent lectures at RTS Orlando, Grant Macaskill suggested that Christians perhaps most poignantly resemble Jesus in our cry of bewildered abandonment: my God, why have you forsaken me? I have heard scarce little of this in our blogs, our prayers, our online chatter. We Christians (many of us) join the rest of the public when we prefer protest over embarrassment, opposition and resistance over humiliation. And while there are good reasons for protest and resistance — they are not necessarily Christian ones, which should give us some pause.
In fact, we are simply wrong when we as Christians say Jesus went to the cross so that we wouldn’t have to. We Christians all have a cross to carry and our way forward together is to follow in those steps. Or do we forget that the cross often looks and feels like defeat. It looks and feels like humiliation and being taken advantage of. It consternates the outside world when it says, “why not rather suffer wrong? Why not rather be defrauded?” (1 Cor 6:7-8). It questions how many times we ought to turn the other cheek before enough is enough. It is a path few want to go down. It is the path our churches are called to follow after, however imperfectly.
This is not the answer. This does not solve our problems. This does not recapture what it means to be evangelical or Christian. It is simply pointing to the long-held appeal in the church to set aside the plans for kingdom-building in exchange for taking up the way of the cross. It is a plea to God’s churches in divisive times to follow the way of the master as we together wait upon the Lord.
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