The Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost
Ephesians 6:10-20
Grant, O merciful God, that your Church, being
gathered together in unity by your Holy Spirit, may show forth your power
among all peoples, to the glory of your Name; through Jesus Christ our
Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever
and ever. Amen.
Pray … for me, so
that when I speak, a message may be given to me to make known with boldness the
mystery of the gospel … Pray that I may declare it boldly, as I must speak.
Amen.
In the exhibit hall this summer at General Convention, they
were giving away buttons, my kind of buttons: They said “Love wins!” And “Black
Lives Matter!” And “Episcopalians Against Gun Violence!” I gathered them up
like free candy and pinned them proudly to my name tag. They were my divine armor,
my social justice armor. I thought that they were from God. They made me feel
strong, part of the crowd. They were my weapons against the terrible demons of racism
and hatred and violence and pollution. I felt virtuous and wore them proudly—for
awhile, at least. Soon, my name badge grew so heavy with these weighty social
issues that I started to get a stiff neck. Really! In pain, I peeled off my
armor and found freedom, once again. Why does armor have to be so heavy, I wondered?
As the mother of two sons with European relatives, I’ve toured
more than my fair share of castles boasting medieval arms museums, so I know something
about heavy armor. Whenever I look at those heavy coats of thick-chained mail,
those metal helmets with tiny slits for eye-holes, those shields as tall as a
man’s body, and those clunky lances and swords that I probably couldn’t lift
above my knees, I wonder how medieval armies ever did any fighting. How did
they even move around? The armor, of course, was all about protection. It was
defensive. In fact, if a knight in shining armor were to fall off of his horse,
he would not even able to stand back up again by himself. He would lie
vulnerably on the ground like a turtle on its back. He couldn’t even put on his
armor or take it off without help. Now Roman armor was certainly less heavy and
all-encompassing than its medieval counterpart, but it is still meant to keep
its wearer safe—or at least to envelop him in a protective shield that feels
solid and inviolable.
Many Christians like the idea of heavy armor that will surround
them in battle. The author of this letter to the Ephesians is probably a
disciple of the apostle Paul, rather than Paul himself. He is writing to a
group of Christians who are living as a persecuted minority in a late first-century
world far more oppressive than 2015 America. The Ephesians know the armor of
the Roman soldier all too well, for it is a commonplace reminder of the might
of Imperial Rome, found on every street corner and marketplace. They know that following Christ puts them at
odds with Rome’s power, as well as with many of their own family and friends.
Their faith puts them in a precarious position. These Christians need a strong
reminder that God, not Rome, holds true power. They need to know that they are not
alone in their struggles. In this context, the metaphor of armor seems an apt
one. Where we might want to feel wrapped in God’s love, or held in God’s hands,
someone facing martyrdom in a Roman arena might well prefer a strong defensive
shield. This text is, for them, deep reassurance that, no matter what, we creatures
follow a God who has triumphed over death and sin. Even though things might
look bad right now, God is in control.
I have more difficulty understanding a common American desire for heavy Christian armor. Our text from Ephesians is one of the foundational pieces of
scripture used by believers in “spiritual warfare.” These contemporary Christians
take its language literally. They sharply divide the universe between a dark
realm, presided over by Satan and his army of demons, and a realm of light,
controlled by God and his angels. Their imaginations delight in describing real
heavenly battles between these two superpowers, with human beings as targets
and pawns in a larger cosmic struggle. They warn that any backsliding or chink
in your faith armor will be a place for the demons to enter and capture your
soul as booty. Jesus, in this context, is a mighty warrior. Christian life is a
battle against evil—evil that can be pinpointed in one’s political enemies. One
of the many “spiritual warfare” sites on the Internet proclaims: “The New World
Order is coming! Are you ready? Once you understand what this New World Order
really is, and how it is being gradually implemented, you will be able to see
it progressing in your daily news!! Learn how to protect yourself, your loved
ones! Stand by for insights so startling you will never look at the news the
same way again!”[1] I want
to distance myself from this common interpretation of our text. I don’t believe
that such a fear-filled, victim-based world-view is what Jesus has in mind for
us.
Just yesterday, my bleeding heart skipped a beat when I heard
about the Kentucky county clerks girding themselves with divine armor in protest
over marriage laws that they consider to be against their Christian beliefs.
“Withstand.” “Stand firm.” Wear the “belt of truth.” “Keep alert.” “Persevere.”
Those who oppose the new same-sex
marriage laws see their protests in the light of these Pauline admonitions.
Stand up for your beliefs! Don’t cave into the ways of the devil and the world!
I wonder: Is there a difference between the clerks’ refusal to issue marriage
licenses and the stance of those who demonstrate for Christian causes to which
I am more sympathetic, like freer emigration laws or an end to payday lenders?
Are all of our “causes” perhaps much heavier than the armor that
God wants to give us? After all, isn’t Christian power supposed to reside in
vulnerability, rather than in brute strength? In the weakness of the Cross,
rather than in the might of the sword? As many of you know, I’m a fan of
psychologist Brene Brown and her work. According to Brown, it is fear that
causes us to “armor up,” to cover our vulnerable souls with all kinds of
ingenious armor. Brown says that we all tend to wear three kinds of armor, none
of which are good for us: We don the “twenty-ton shield” of perfectionism; we
wear the practice of “foreboding joy” that prevents us from enjoying happiness
and success for fear that they will disappear; and we put on the practice of
numbing that uses food, alcohol, or Facebook to block out our uncomfortable
feelings.[2]
Brown tells us to set aside our armor, to enter the Arena of Life in such a way
that our true, vulnerable selves can be seen and shared. Shouldn’t we
Christians, too, be talking about putting away our armor, rather than layering
some more on?
A closer reading of our text, however, shows that the shield that
God offers us is the opposite of the false armor that we wrap around ourselves,
the armor that Brene Brown wants us to put down. Lifting the armor of numbing
from our hearts, God wraps us in Truth, instead. God gives us God’s Word with
which we can cut through the foolishness of our lives. Taking away perfectionism, God puts us in
right relationship with others and with our deepest selves. Removing foreboding joy, God grounds us in
peace and saves us with Christ’s healing touch. So protected, we are freed not
to fight, but to persevere when life becomes difficult. We gain the strength
not to disparage others, but to pray for one another: to pray at all times, in
all places. God doesn’t give us armor that we can hide in. God’s armor
paradoxically opens us up to relationship with God and with one
another—relationship that is sewed tight by the threads of continuous prayer.
As I took off my buttons that day at Convention, I was reminded
of Catholic priest Gregory Boyle’s brilliant words. The strategy of Jesus, he
writes, isn’t to take the right stand on issues. It is rather to stand in the
right place—to stand with the outcast and with those on the margins. For
example, Jesus doesn’t seek rights for lepers; he touches them. He doesn’t
champion the cause of the outcast. He is the outcast. He doesn’t fight for
improved conditions in the jails. He says, “I was in prison.” Jesus just
stands, just as today’s epistle counsels us to do. And as he stands there with
the outcast, the Left screams at him, “Don’t just stand there, do something!”
The Right cries, too, “Don’t stand with those folks at all!” And both sides
decide that Jesus needs to die.
As Boyle explains, this same Jesus now asks us,
“’Where are you standing?’ And after chilling defeat and soul-numbing failure, Jesus
asks us again, ‘Are you still standing there?’” [3]
Our text from Ephesians reassures us, “Stand firm there on the margins with Jesus,
and all will be well.”
[1]
http://www.cuttingedge.org/news/n1503.cfm
[2]
Brene Brown, Daring Greatly.
[3]
Gregory Boyle, Tatoos on the Heart
(New York: Simon and Schuster, 2010), 172-173.
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