Imagining the Kingdom

If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?

You’ve heard this philosophical nugget of a question, yes?  It is mind-bending and whimsical, but, in truth, it begs deep consideration: If a tree falls in the forest and there is no one to hear it, does it make a sound?  In other words—and let this question sink in—Does the reality of something depend upon us? 

Human beings actually ask ourselves this question from almost the moment of birth.  And at that earliest stage of development, we decidedly believe that, yes, the reality of something does depend upon our presence.  This is the whole idea behind the game peekaboo.  Dr. Caspar Addyman of the University of London says that, when the parent hides around a corner, the baby believes the parent has truly disappeared, blinked out of existence, and thus the relief and laughter when the parent reappears.[i]

Last month, the Rector’s Book Club read the most unusual Terry Pratchett novel Hogfather.  Pratchett was an enormously popular fantasy fiction writer of dozens of novels, and Hogfather is as bizarre as any of them.  In the book, the Hogfather, a jolly Razorback-looking fellow in a red suit who is essentially Santa Claus in Pratchett’s Discworld, has disappeared as a result of a wicked magical effort by the novels villains to make children disbelieve in him.  As the children disbelieve in the Hogfather in the story, the Hogfather ceases to exist. 

This creates a crisis in the world that runs so deep that even the personification of Death himself tries to fix it.  Like a character in a Tim Burton movie, the skeletal Death dresses in Santa Claus robes, takes the reins of the Hogfather’s sleigh, and begins jetting across the world delivering presents, all in the desperate attempt to make the world’s children believe in the Hogfather again and thus bring the Hogfather back into existence.

Throughout most of the novel, the reader thinks this is merely a whimsical tale, but toward the end Death explains to his granddaughter (in this story Death has a granddaughter) why it all matters.  Children’s belief that the Hogfather (i.e., in Santa Claus) is real, Death explains, actually makes it real. Children’s belief that there is someone who cares for them all, regardless of who they are, where they are from, who their families are, actually creates the Christmas spirit of generosity and care that otherwise wouldn’t exist.  Belief in Christmas wills Christmas into being.

And most importantly, this early insistence that the Hogfather is real teaches children as they grow and mature to insist that other things, even more important things, are real: Duty, Justice, Mercy.[ii]  Death says to his granddaughter, “Take the universe and grind it down to the finest sieve and then show me one atom of justice, one molecule of mercy.  And yet you [humans] act as if there is some ideal order in the world, as if there is some rightness to the universe…”[iii]

In the story, Death is not saying that these ideals are fake or pretend, but Death is saying that they exist—things such as duty, justice, and mercy exist—only if and because human beings believe in them. 

Things such as duty, justice and mercy exist only if and because human beings believe in them.

Terry Pratchett is not making up this notion for his fantasy novel.  Philosophers and sociologists since Jean Paul Sartre have long talked about what they call the “social imaginary.”  The social imaginary is the collective world of virtues and values we hold most dear, that run so deep that we assume them without even reflecting on them.  The social imaginary is both the real world, and only exists because we believe it to be true.

That’s the end of today’s Creative Fiction and Philosophy 101 class.  And, it brings us to Christ the King Sunday, the Last Sunday after Pentecost—today—when Christians are invited particularly to imagine what it would mean, what it does mean, for Christ to be king, for Christ to reign in our world.  So, to return to a variation of the question I’ve been posing all morning…If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?  If children cease to believe in Santa Claus, is the spirit of Christmas real?  If the world does not live and act as if Christ is king, then is Christ king?

The portion of Matthew 25 we read today gives us the barometer as we look out at the world: Are the hungry fed?  Are the naked clothed?  Are strangers welcomed? Are the imprisoned comforted?  Does anyone really, truly believe in duty, justice, mercy?  Does Christ reign?

To observe the world and ask those questions could lead, and indeed for some does lead, to despondency, cynicism, and a contention that Christ is not in any way king.  The social imaginary of our world seems to privilege self-interest over duty, power over justice, and vicious tribalism over mercy.

But to look at the state of the world and render that conclusion is, for us, the wrong way around.  Rather, our starting point must be like that of the first disciples who witnessed the Resurrection, or of children, who discover their profound ability to will things into being.

The social imaginary of our world is not unalterable.  We are empowered to revise it, shift it, renew it so that the virtues and values by which we live are transformed.  This is why, throughout the Gospels, Jesus encourages his disciples with images of salt and yeast, small things that change the taste or rise of the whole.  Like the single child who waits upon St. Nicholas with open-hearted wonder and belief, willing the spirit of Christmas into being, our lived dedication to the Gospel—our feeding of the hungry, our clothing of the naked, our welcome of the stranger—makes the Gospel real in our world and ushers in Christ’s reign.

All that is to say, Christ becomes king, when we first believe that he is so.  Christ becomes king when we first become subjects.  Duty, justice, mercy become real in our world when we first commit to living dutifully, and justly, and mercifully. 

If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?  If no one is there to follow, is Christ the king?  But we do follow, and through our faith and discipleship, we become the salt, the yeast, that will renew our social imaginary, that will transform the whole world.  It is staggering, the blessed responsibility God bestows upon us.  We proclaim Christ as king; we live as subjects of Christ; we follow Christ’s Gospel command as the directing force behind all our discernment and decision.  And through our belief, duty extends, mercy grows, and justice for all God’s children becomes real. Long live the king!  Hallelujah, hallelujah! 

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[i] https://www.bbc.com/news/health-24553877

[ii] Pratchett, Terry. Hogfather, 380-381.

[iii] Pratchett, 381.

The Rapture?

I grew up on Crowley’s Ridge in Green County, at the northern tip of the Arkansas Delta.  My father is from McGehee, in far Southeast Arkansas almost to the Louisiana line, which my brother Andrew calls the “Sure Enough Delta.”  You almost can’t get from McGehee to Paragould, and that was surely the case when I was a child in the 1970s.  The Delta was, and mostly still is, an expanse of two-lane county and state roads, and the trip by car between McGehee and Paragould took at least four hours.  For a child, that made the trip mythical and mystical, like going on a hero’s journey.  And when my grandmother “Gee” (because, from McGehee) would instead make the trip north to see us, we anticipated her coming as if it were the coming of a queen, or, if I may borrow from today’s epistle reading, the return of the Lord.  We Thompson kids would mark Gee’s arrival date on the calendar and check off the days.  The morning of, we’d plaster ourselves to the living room window and keep vigil throughout the day, until, wonder of wonders, a big, olive-green Chevy Impala would pull into the driveway.  The four Thompson urchins would plow out the back door and down the driveway to the car, singing little kid versions of “Hosannah!” as if it truly were the Second Coming, almost knocking Gee over as she emerged from the car.  We’d hug and kiss and grin and giggle with abandon.  It was the best day imaginable when Gee arrived at our home.

Gee and me, circa 1979

And then Gee would pick up one of my siblings, turn around, get back in the car, and drive away, back from where she’d come, leaving the other three grandchildren shaken, stunned, and bereft.

That’s not how you expected that anecdote to end, is it?  At best, it makes no sense, and at worst, if true, it would strongly suggest that Gee was arbitrary and cruel, and not a very good grandmother. 

Take this personal story I’ve just told and apply it by analogy to the way in which today’s passage from Paul’s First Letter to the Thessalonians is often read in contemporary American Christianity.  This is the famous passage on which the theological idea of “the Rapture” is based.  It concludes: “For the Lord himself, with a cry of command, with the archangel’s call and with the sound of God’s trumpet, will descend from heaven, and the dead in Christ will rise first. Then we who are alive will be caught up in the clouds together with them to meet the Lord in the air; and so we will be with the Lord forever.”

The word translated in this passage as “caught up” is ἁρπάζω (harpazo)in Greek or raptio in Latin, thus rapture. Rapture claimants interpret this passage to mean that, when Jesus returns, the faithful will go up to meet Jesus in the sky, and Jesus will then turn around and take only those faithful with him back into heaven, leaving everyone else alone, bereft, and subject to a burning world.

Perhaps no theological idea since the Middle Ages has been used more extensively as a tool of coercion and fear than the Rapture.  Rapture proponents contend that if you love Jesus enough and if your faith is just right (which, of course, means if your faith is exactly in line with theirs), then when the Great Tribulation (as they call it) comes, Jesus will draw you to meet him in the air and whisk you away from suffering and pain.  But if you are lacking in any of these ways, well, you will be left behind in suffering and torment.

You’ve heard this idea before?  Of course you have.  It’s virtually impossible to live in the religious milieu of the American South and not have heard it.  For more than a few in this room, at some point in your life this very idea likely drove you away from Christianity, and you’re only recently, tentatively returning. 

Hear me say today: the Rapture is a bogus notion.[i]  And by that, I do not mean that it is in the Bible, but that I disagree with it.  Rather, I mean that it is not a coherent idea in the Bible at all.  The entire idea of the Rapture is a spotty, prooftexted, cobbled-together misinterpretation that begins with today’s passage from Paul.

Let me back up for a moment.  At the outset of this homily, I employed an anecdote that (hopefully) resonated with you.  I mentioned locations that you know, the kinds of family images with which you are familiar, and emotions that you understand.  But also note, each of these things hit home for you because they are specific to our time, our culture, and our geography.  If the story of my grandmother’s visit in her 1974 Chevy Impala were told, say, two thousand years from now halfway across the globe, then some of the details might fall flat, or be woefully misinterpreted or misunderstood.  The same risks are at play whenever we read Holy Scripture.  Paul was a brilliant writer and employer of images, but his, like anyone’s, were specific to his day, era, and location.  And if we merely read the words and ignore their historical and cultural context, we will misunderstand.

Specifically, in First Thessalonians today, Paul uses terminology commonly understood in his day and age to describe what happens when a beloved or esteemed dignitary—a king, perhaps—comes to visit a city state.  As when my grandmother Gee made the long, arduous journey through the Arkansas Delta to Paragould, and her four grandkids ran out with abandon to meet her at the end of the driveway, the faithful citizens in ancient days would leave the walls of the city to run out and meet the approaching visiting king.  This is the image Paul is using when he describes the faithful going out to meet the returning Jesus in the air. But what would happen next is not that the king took a few of the citizens and turned around to go back where he came from.  Rather, the welcome party accompanied and ushered the king onward into the city.[ii]  The faithful met the king and traveled with him the rest of the way.

This actually occurs quintessentially in the Gospels, on Palm Sunday when Jesus approaches the gates of Jerusalem.  The ebullient faithful go to meet Jesus, singing their hosannahs, and they then travel with him the remainder of the way into the city.

When, after much fretful, furtive, yet hopeful waiting my grandmother Gee would pull into our driveway, and we’d run out to meet her with joy, she wouldn’t get back in the car with one of us and drive away.  She’d embrace each of us and then smile and coo as we all walked together up to and into the house.  When Gee entered our home, it was as if transformed.  Even the dog, who saw her rarely, immediately loved her the most.  More than forty years since those arrivals, I still feel the incredible depth of her love as I talk about her.  Her arrival changed everything.  As will Christ’s, when Christ returns.

There is no coherent biblical support for a Jesus who whisks a few true believers to heaven and says to hell with the rest.  There is no coherent biblical warrant for supposing that Jesus will abandon this world to destruction.  Rather, the Second Coming of Christ is all the way back into our world.  Whereas in the First Coming Christ was incarnate in the singular person of Jesus, at the Second Coming Christ will be incarnate in all things, redeeming and restoring them. 

Mercy, how we need that promise.  Our world is rent asunder:  In Sudan, in Central America, in Ukraine, and in the very Holy Land in which Jesus lived, breathed, and walked; in our own broken communities and broken homes, in our political viciousness; in the speed with which our culture finds unforgiveable fault…And yet we love this world of whose clay we are formed.  Our hope is not to be whisked away from it, but rather that it would be restored as the world of fullness and grace God intended it to be.

Rather than prooftexting a singular verse here and there to cobble together a Rapture theology of manipulation and fear, I prefer to lean on the theology of that weirdly hopeful book Revelation, in which the Second Coming of Christ—the Christ who restores this earth and everything in it—culminates in the wondrous words of the returned Jesus himself, who says, “See, the home of God is among mortals.  God will dwell with them; they will be God’s peoples, and God himself will be with them; God will wipe every tear from their eyes.  Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away.”[iii]

Rightly understood, this is what Paul is promising in First Thessalonians today, that nothing—not the already-dead, not the yet to come—nothing will be lost to God.  The daily losses that seem to slip through our fingers; the brokenness that grieves us; the injury to bodies and souls that we endure…In the End Christ will appear gloriously and, wonder of wonders, restore it all.  Not for some few, not for those who believe hard enough or exactly the “right” way, but all.  Like little children with their faces plastered to the window, we will see Christ’s coming.  We will run to meet him.  And we will sing with joy, as he enters into our hearts and homes. 

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[i] For a comprehensive analysis of The Rapture, see Barbara R. Rossing’s excellent book The Rapture Exposed: The Message of Hope in the Book of Revelation. 

[ii] https://www.ligonier.org/learn/devotionals/caught-up-in-the-clouds

[iii] Revelation 21:3-4