Justice

“What does the Lord require of you but to do justice…?” – Micah 6:8

“But let justice roll down like waters.” – Amos 5:24

About two months ago, I was asked to join a social justice and health equity committee at Stanford. This committee was formed as the result of medical students pushing for concepts of anti-racism and social justice to be integrated into the medical school curriculum. At one of the first meetings, students directly confronted professors about racist and stereotyping content contained in lectures and tests. It was shocking to me to see students being so vulnerable, bold, and feeling empowered enough to engage Deans in the medical school that were 30-40 years older, and had the power potentially to impact their career trajectories.

I reflected on this afterwards and remarked to Esther that we would have never even imagined 15-20 years ago during our training calling out professors for their actions and demanding curriculum reform. But somehow, we are in a moment of history, when calls for social justice are louder than ever. It has been inspiring to hear student members of our committee—those with disabilities, who identify as queer, and those from cultures that been discriminated against—call out those with power and privilege from a place of complacency and comfortability to confront these problems within the curriculum that are traumatizing our students. 

But, I also find myself somewhat uncomfortable with the current predominant justice narrative that all power structures should be overturned so that society subverts the power of dominant groups in favor of those that are oppressed. In this postmodern framework, justice is primarily about those who have been historically without power seeking the authority and allyship to overturn inequitable institutions and assuming power.

As Tim Keller puts it “...power must be mapped through the means of ‘intersectionality.’ The categories are race, gender, sexual orientation, gender identity (and sometimes others). If you are white, male, straight, cisgender then you have the highest amount of power. If you are none of these at all, you are the most marginalized and oppressed–and there are numerous categories in the middle. Most importantly, each category toward the powerless end of the spectrum has a greater moral authority and a greater ability to see the way truly things are. Only powerlessness and oppression brings moral high ground and true knowledge. Therefore those with more privilege must not enter into any debate—they have no right or ability to advise the oppressed, blinded as they are by their social location. They simply must give up their power.”

Tim Keller points out that there are several issues with this postmodern framework of social justice, including its logical incoherence, the undermining of our common humanity, and its denial of our common sinfulness. But the two ways I feel that the postmodern framework misses the mark in offering a pathway to biblical justice is 1) it offers a highly self-righteous performative identity and 2) it makes true forgiveness, peace, and reconciliation between groups impossible. 

Keller then goes on to speak about biblical justice and other types of social justice frameworks which you can read about here. But I would like to highlight a quote from Keller that discusses what true justice looks like. It is found in the life and character of Jesus. “When God came to earth in Jesus Christ he came as a poor man, to a family at the bottom of the social order. He experienced torture and death at the hands of religious and government elites using their power unjustly to oppress. So in Jesus we see God laying aside his privilege and power—his ‘glory’—in order to identify with the weak and helpless (Philippians 2:5-8). And yet, through the endurance of violence and human injustice he paid the rightful penalty of humanity’s sin to divine justice (Isaiah 53:5). Then he was raised to even greater honor and also authority to rule (Philippians 2:5:9-11). Jesus takes authority, but only after losing it in service to the weak and helpless.”

The means for achieving justice from a postmodern framework has primarily been through asserting force, protesting for political change, and guilt assignment. All of these have their places for achieving our goal of having an equitable society. But these methods do not ultimately create heart change and inner transformation. Jesus models the way for biblical justice: a humble man who has all power and authority coming to dwell among the poor and uneducated - transforming lives, governments, and culture by modeling humility, compassion, and healing the sick. This is compelling biblical justice that changes not only our behaviors, but our hearts, and makes true forgiveness, peace, and reconciliation between groups possible.

Lion and the Lamb

“I began to weep loudly because no one was found worthy to open the scroll or to look into it. And one of the elders said to me, “Weep no more; behold, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has conquered, so that he can open the scroll and its seven seals. And between the throne and the four living creatures and among the elders I saw a Lamb standing, as though it had been slain.” – Revelation 5:4-6

I tend to become task-focused when it comes to teaching my children. When they get frustrated because they can’t understand a concept or carry out a skill, I tend to want to power in there to fix things, to hammer the concept in or push until we get the assignment done. But I often learn the hard way that what my children need first when they come to me with frustrations is compassion. They need me to be gentle. They need me to listen. They need me to lay my own agenda aside so I can see and understand their struggle better.

Someone once wrote of this passage, “John was looking for a Lion—he must have been surprised to see a Lamb.” That’s interesting, isn’t it? John is told, weep no more, for the conquering Lion has come! And yet, when he looks, what he sees is a lamb. The meekest and most helpless of creatures. He was met in his grief and frustration by an image not of power or might, but of weakness.

“Compassion,” Nouwen writes, “is hard because it requires the inner disposition to go with others to places where they are weak, vulnerable, lonely, and broken.” In a sense, I cannot teach my children until I first understand where they are. I must go with them into the places of weakness, shame and struggle. I must have compassion, and the only way I can do that is if I have received it from God. The only way I can build and restore my reserves of compassion is to receive and savor the compassion of Jesus, the slain lamb.

In the end, that is what matters. It probably won’t matter ten years from now if my kids learn right now how to spell a word or solve an equation. But it might matter whether or not they see the compassion and love of Jesus in me. “Put on then, as God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, compassionate hearts, kindness, humility, meekness and patience” (Colossians 3:12). 

The Two Sons in Jonah

“And should I not pity Nineveh, that great city, in which there are more than 120,000 persons who do not know their right hand from their left, and also much cattle?” – Jonah 4:11

Reading through the prophets, the book of Jonah feels refreshing, perhaps because, despite being considered a prophetic book, it only has one sentence of actual preaching. The rest is narrative. One thing many commentators have noticed about that narrative is how it correlates with the parable of the prodigal son in Luke 15. In the first half of the book, Jonah plays the younger son. He openly refuses to obey God’s command to go to Nineveh, running away on a ship going 2,500 miles in the opposite direction. Then in the second half of the book, Jonah plays the elder son. He goes obediently to Nineveh and preaches his one sentence, but then when the people of Nineveh repent, he becomes furious, bitterly resenting God’s mercy.

It’s easy to disparage the younger son and approve of the older one, just as it’s easy to think Jonah learns his lesson when he finally makes his way to Nineveh—but in reality, both are wrong. We reject his love when we disobey in open rebellion. But we also reject his love when we obey in self-righteousness. Both fail to understand the meaning of God’s grace.

Grace is God “appointing” a fish to swallow Jonah when he should have perished in the sea (Jonah 1:17). Grace is the father running out to embrace his youngest son. Grace is God entreating the angry Jonah just as the father goes out to entreat his elder son. Grace is God appointing his son Jesus, who called himself the greater Jonah (Matthew 12:40) and like Jonah, would allow himself to be cast to death for the sake of others, only to rise in three days. But unlike Jonah, Jesus would weep for the city. He would go outside the city, not so he could see its condemnation, but so he could die on a cross for its salvation.

Timothy Keller writes, “Salvation belongs to God alone, to no one else. If someone is saved, it is wholly God’s doing. It is not a matter of God saving you partly and you saving yourself partly. No. God saves us. We do not and cannot save ourselves. That’s the gospel.” Our disobedience does not bar us from salvation. Nor can our own righteousness earn it. It is entirely God’s gift to us. 

Both stories end in mid-conversation. At the end of Jonah, God asks, “should I not pity Nineveh?” At the end of the parable, the father tells the elder son, “all that is mine is yours. It was fitting to celebrate…” But we don’t hear the response that God or the father receives. The stories stop suddenly, on a cliffhanger—as if the question is coming at us, too. As if God is waiting, too, for our response. Do you understand what grace means? Will you receive it? 

The White Stone

“To the one who conquers I will give some of the hidden manna, and I will give him a white stone, with a new name written on the stone that no one knows except the one who receives it.” – Revelation 2:17

I’m sure everyone who has a kid going through distance learning this week has figured out the importance of having the right zoom link. You can have everything set up and ready, but if the zoom link isn’t correct, or you don’t have the required profile name, or something doesn’t authenticate, then none of it matters. In the old days, all you had to do was get your kid to the right classroom door; now, you need the right kind of ticket to get in, and there’s nothing quite like the frustration of working out tech difficulties that are keeping you from where you need to be.

The white stone was that kind of ticket. In the ancient near east, white stones were used as entrance tickets to plays and banquets, upon which names would often be inscribed. They were also how judges would declare their votes: they would drop into an urn a white pebble for acquittal, or a black one for a guilty verdict. The white stone could also be a reference to the stones on the breastplate of the high priest, either the twelve precious stones that represented the tribes of Israel (Exodus 28:17), or the Urim and Thummim set over the priest’s heart to represent judgment (Exodus 28:30).

Regardless, such a stone was a token of favor in the setting of a judgment of some kind—an assessment of admittance, innocence, or holiness. It was symbolic of remembrance, not unlike the manna (another small, stone-crystal-like object) hidden within the ark of the covenant, with which it is paired here. It was personalized, all the more here with its mysterious new name.

And it was something you could hold. For some reason, in this increasingly virtual world we’re inhabiting, that seems significant. The word used for “stone” here refers to a small stone, worn smooth by water: a polished pebble you could rub in your hand. White is the color of purity and victory. One day, we will be able to hold in our hands the ticket into the life we long for, the symbol of the righteousness and admission won on our behalf by Christ, the evidence that He has never forgotten us. We will hold in our hands a new name, for our eyes only, which He will give us. What an intimate, wondrous, and victorious thing that will be.

Prosperity

“For you say, I am rich, I have prospered, and I need nothing, not realizing that you are wretched, pitiable, poor, blind, and naked. I counsel you to buy from me gold refined by fire, so that you may be rich, and white garments so that you may clothe yourself… and salve to anoint your eyes, so that you may see.” – Revelation 3:17-18

“Woe to those who lie at ease in Zion.” – Amos 6:1

We are now blowing through the major and minor prophets, books for which pausing to grasp historical context can be helpful. Amos lived during the reigns of Uzziah and Jeroboam, a period during which Israel experienced unparalleled wealth and prosperity. Assyria appeared to be no threat. The Israelites took these to be signs that they were safe from the judgment of God, despite their breaking of God’s covenant. Their wealth had been accrued at the expense of the poor, and their worship of God amounted to no more than pagan-like manipulations for their own ends. It was Amos’s rather unpleasant task to inform them that their prosperity was a mirage: God’s judgment was still coming. Indeed, less than a century later, Assyria exploded into an unexpected final century of greatness during which they vanquished the entire kingdom of Israel. 

Jesus has eerily similar words for the church in Laodicea. Laodicea was a wealthy city, known for its luxurious black wool, and held a leading medical center that specialized in eye treatments. Yet these very areas of perceived self-sufficiency were where they were most lacking. You need gold, clothing, and eye salve from me, Jesus says, to be truly rich and free of shame, to truly see. Here I am, knocking: repent.

We all see our need for God in areas of struggle, but how aware are you of your need for repentance in areas of prosperity? Prosperity has a dangerous tendency to make us lukewarm towards God, because it obscures our need for him, it feeds our pride. We don’t deny him, but neither do we whole-heartedly follow him. But God sees through even the most pleasant circumstances and shiniest accolades, to the true condition of our hearts. He sees whether we love his law or lie to ourselves (Amos 2:4), whether we love good, hate evil, and establish justice (Amos 5:15). “He declares to man what is his thought” (Amos 4:13)—and it is this God that says, I will spit what is lukewarm out of my mouth. I would rather you be cold or hot. “Return to me… return to me… return to me… return to me” (Amos 4:8-11). May we see our hearts as God does, especially during times of outward wealth and success, and hear his call to repentance. 

Grief and Joy

“My soul waits for the Lord more than watchmen for the morning, more than watchmen for the morning. O Israel, hope in the Lord!” – Psalm 130:6-7

Today was our first day of school. As with many landmarks during this time, it felt like a mix of grief and joy. It’s fantastic to be have freedom from finding school parking or hauling school gear, to be able to serve fresh snacks and meals. It’s a real gift to be so closely involved now in what my children are learning, to better be able to incorporate home lessons throughout the day. But the whole thing felt sad too. It’s sad to see kids staring into screens for hours a day. Knowing it was coming is one thing; seeing it happen is another. This is not how it’s meant to be.

There is consolation, I think, in how the Bible doesn’t glance over these things. Doesn’t jump to some fix or analysis, but tarries in the places where grief and joy mingle together. My soul waits like the watchmen wait. You don’t set watchmen on the walls unless there is potential for trouble. Their very existence is an acknowledgment that all in the world is not as it is supposed to be. They wait in the dark, through the night. And yet it is in that place that the psalmist speaks of hope and steadfast love. The arrival of the dawn, the end of their shift, is sure, and that is how we wait: we look, and we hope, but never in vain, for there will come the “morning star” (Revelation 2:28).

McKelvey writes, “You are the sovereign of my sorrow.” Sometimes, that is all I can see, the loss and wrongness in how we are living. But sometimes too in that place the joys and gifts pierce through, experiences and perspectives and changes that never would have happened if my life had not been so radically reframed the way this time has forced it to be. “You are the sovereign of my sorrow. You apprehend a wider sweep with wiser eyes than mine. My history bears the fingerprints of grace… you remain at work.” Sadness and grace, grief and joy, and in that place, God remains at work. Hope in the Lord.

A Liturgy for First Waking

from Every Moment Holy, by Douglas McKelvey:

I am not the captain of my own destiny,

nor even of this new day, and so

I renounce anew all claim

to my own life and desires.

I am only yours, O Lord.

Lead me by your mercies through these hours,

that I might spend them well,

not in harried pursuit of my own agendas,

but rather in good service to you.

Teach me to shepherd the small duties

of this day with great love,

tending faithfully those tasks

you place within my care

and tending with patience and

kindness the needs and hearts of

those people you place within my reach.

Nothing is too hard for you, Lord Christ.

I deposit now all confidence in you

that whatever these waking hours bring,

my foundations will not be shaken.

At day’s end I will lay me down again to sleep

knowing that my best hope is well kept in you.

In all things your grace will sustain me.

Bid me follow, and I will follow.

Amen.

The Tame Jesus

“In the midst of the lampstands one like a son of man, clothed with a long robe and with a golden sash around his chest. The hairs of his head were white, like white wool, like snow. His eyes were like a flame of fire, his feet were like burnished bronze, refined in a furnace, and his voice was like the roar of many waters.” – Revelation 1:13-15

“‘Do you think I keep him in my wallet, fools?’ said Tirian. ‘Who am I that I could make Aslan appear at my bidding? He's not a tame lion.’” – The Last Battle, C.S. Lewis

One of the things I love about the book of Revelation are its depictions of Jesus. We see God the Father come in thunder and smoke, the Holy Spirit in wind and fire, but Jesus we tend to see in his humanity. And rightly so: but Revelation reminds us that he is as much God as Man. 

The vision John has of Jesus here is fearsome enough to rival Mt. Sinai and Pentecost. Have you ever heard the roar of many waters? We once visited a huge waterfall: the sound was deafening, thrilling and fearful not only because of its volume, but because it was a testament to the sheer force and power of the falling water. When was the last time you looked into a flame of fire? In a dark room, even one lit candle is piercing, riveting, hard to look away from.

This is no tame Jesus. The long robe and golden sash are symbolic of the elevated position of royalty or a high priest. The snow-white hair indicates holiness or long age. The eyes of flame are ones that pierce through all impurity and deception. Bronze, the metal of weapons, symbolize feet of judgment. This is a fearsome Jesus, a God far beyond our ability to control. John writes, “When I saw him, I fell at his feet as though dead” (1:17).

And yet, this same Jesus lays his hand on us, as he does on John. He speaks words of comfort as he does to John; he reminds us that he died for us (1:17-18). The God of all power laid that power down for us. Yet he is God. He is not one to be pushed, reduced, or ignored. May we not forget to tremble.

Valley of Trouble to Door of Hope

“Therefore, behold, I will allure her, and bring her into the wilderness, and speak tenderly to her. And there I will give her her vineyards and make the Valley of Achor a door of hope. And there she shall answer as in the days of her youth, as at the time when she came out of the land of Egypt.” – Hosea 2:14-15

Hidden here in Hosea is an epilogue to the sad story told in Joshua chapter 7. Joshua leads the Israelites in the defeat of Jericho, but all does not end well. One of the Israelites steals from the spoils kept for the treasury of the Lord, and God’s resultant wrath causes them to lose their next battle against Ai. The culprit turns out to be Achan, who is stoned to death. Before his dies, he confesses: “when I saw among the spoil a beautiful cloak from Chinar, and 200 shekels of silver, and a bar of gold weighing 50 shekels, then I coveted them and took them.” 

The place of Achan’s death is called the Valley of Achor; “achor” means trouble. Trouble found Achan and the Israelites the same way it found Gomer, in the violating of a covenant relationship with God by turning to shinier things. Hosea makes it clear that this is no mere legal infraction; this is the breaking of a love relationship. 

And yet, here in Hosea, God retells the story. You will answer me as you did in the days of Egypt. I will allure you with tender words into the wilderness. You will be given vineyards, and I will make the Valley of Trouble into a Door of Hope. There it is, the whole story of God’s people, Egypt to wilderness to the promise of fertile land, redeemed. Darkness in the valley transformed into passageways of hope. Even later, God will send Jesus, who left Egypt, who spent forty days in the wilderness, who says we are like vines who bear much fruit as we abide in Him. Who walked through the valley of the shadow of death, who experienced the judgment all the Achan's of the world deserved, to open for us a door of eternal hope: forgiveness for our troubling faithlessness, and redemption of our broken narratives. Jesus, who is God’s tender Word to us, the epilogue for all the stories in the Old Testament that have ever gone wrong.

Battling Temptation

“For all that is in the world—the desires of the flesh and the desires of the eyes and the pride of life—is not from the Father but is from the world. And the world is passing away along with its desires, but whoever does the will of God abides forever.” – 1 John 2:16

McKelvey writes in his “Liturgy for One Battling a Destructive Desire”: “In this moment I might choose to indulge a fleeting hunger, or I might choose to love you more… Given the choice of shame or glory, let me choose glory. Given the choice of this moment or eternity, let me choose in this moment what is eternal. Given the choice of this easy pleasure, or the harder road of the cross, give me grace to choose to follow you.”

In the moment, the desires of the world feel so strong, don’t they? Sometimes, as the line goes, resistance seems futile. Yet the reality, John says, is that our desires, just like the world they come from, are passing away. They are in actuality fleeting, temporary. It is the will and glory of God that abides forever. In a sense, all of temptation is a battle to choose what is eternal over what is momentary.

It’s a battle that Jesus understood. Someone once pointed out that these verses in 1st John map out Jesus’ temptations in the wilderness in Matthew 4. Jesus experienced the desires of the flesh when he was tempted to turn stone to bread to satiate his hunger. He experienced the desires of the eyes when he was taken to a mountaintop and shown all the glory of the kingdoms of the world that could be his. He experienced the pride of life when he was tempted to prove that God would command angels for him. We have a Savior who was tempted in every way as we are, yet was without sin (Hebrews 4:15). He felt the temptation even more strongly, perhaps, than we who give in, but he is also a living testament that these desires are passing, that the One who does the will of God indeed lives forever, just as we now can. 

May we choose eternity in our battles with temptation. As the liturgy ends: “Let me build, then, my King, a beautiful thing by long obedience, by the steady progression of small choices that laid end to end will become like the stones of a pleasing path stretching to eternity and unto your welcoming arms and unto the sound of your voice pronouncing the judgment: Well done.” 

Reacting and Responding

“A fool gives full vent to his spirit, but a wise man quietly holds it back.” – Proverbs 29:11

There is a difference between reacting and responding. More often than not I find that being too quick to react inhibits my ability to respond well. If there is one parenting lesson I am slowly, slowly learning over the course of these past six months, it is that quite often the very best thing to do in the moment is not to react. Not snap back, not lecture, not vent. Not say anything, even if the words are forming in my mind, bursting to be spoken; even if they are fully justified. I’ve been doing an experiment of sorts, and found that each time I have consciously held back, a better outcome has resulted. I’ve never regretted it.

This doesn’t mean I don’t respond, but in fact helps me respond better. It allows the cloud of my emotions to pass by so I can focus on what my child needs with greater clarity. It allows me to assess for optimal timing, to choose my words with greater care. It often prevents an angry outburst or an escalated argument, which end up being more destructive than productive. It opens a window for grace. It guides me towards correction that points to the gospel, rather than becoming tinged with personal vindictiveness.

In the book Every Moment Holy, Douglas McKelvey writes “A Liturgy for a Moment of Frustration at a Child”:

Let me not react in this moment, O Lord,

in the blindness of my own emotion.

Rather give me—a fellow sinner—

wisdom to respond with a grace

that would shepherd my child’s heart

toward your mercies,

   so equipping them

   for the hard labors

   of their own pilgrimage.