I’m
having a dream. I don’t particularly
want to have this dream, but I can’t
seem to end it, can’t seem to wake up. I
am in a law court, in the defendant’s box.
Surrounding me, somehow stuffed into the box with me, is the entirety of
the General Assembly, in all its magisterial glory. I see the representatives from each and every
Presbytery, arrayed beside me, and with them the representatives from the
Synods and all the people there to observe.
Finally, I see the myriad support persons, the secretaries and scribes,
and the moderator—just elected and as big as life—holding forth with gavel and
cross. And I understand that the
entirety of the Presbyterian Church (USA) is represented there in that crowded defendant’s
box, and that we are on trial, called to the bench for the way we have carried
out the will of God.
The
prosecutor steps forward, and in my dream I know somehow that it’s Micah
himself, prophet of 7th Century Judea, given life once again to
handle this case, or perhaps he has always been alive, I am not certain, but
whatever the case, he steps forward and begins his opening statement: “Hear ye,
hear ye what saith the Lord!” And I think that God is going to take over,
that God will be the prosecutor, but I am mistaken: it is Micah who continues. “Rise, plead your case before the mountains, and
let the hills hear your voice.” And I look over in the judge’s box, and there
they are, the mountains, and I feel a chill wind blowing off of them, and see
birds wheeling around their tops, sheep grazing on their sides. Clouds gather around their heads, and though
they do not move or speak, I know that they are sentient, that they are aware.
They are a fundamental part of creation, god’s created order, every bit
as much as I am—certainly as much as the Presbyterian Church (USA). And
I smile at the thought of calling the mountains to jury duty—who would go after
them if they didn’t show?—but it hits me that they are not the jury, they are the judges, and they will decide our
case. We are being judged by creation.
As
if he hears me—maybe he does, it’s a dream, after all—Micah addresses the judge:
“Hear, you mountains, the controversy of the Lord, and you enduring foundations
of the earth;” and I think “holy guacamole!” and think to run—feels don’t fail
me now—because the complainant is the Lord
God Adonai! And we are being judged
by the foundations of the earth, the foundations of all creation is our judge,
and I am very afraid.
But
in my dream I think: what do we have to fear?
Are we not good Presbyterians? Do
we not accomplish things decently and in good order, and provide good, solid,
meaty worship? Do we not sing all the
old hymns, and a fair number of new ones to boot? Do we not provide—and I lift my head a little
higher—good, Bible-based preaching? About
what do we have to worry?
And
now, Micah finishes his opening statement: “The Lord has a controversy,” and in
my dream it’s as if I see the Hebrew shining overhead, like in one of those
sub-titled operas, and it is rib, the
technical word for a legal proceeding, “The Lord has a legal dispute with his
people, and he will contend with the Presbyterian Church (USA).” And suddenly, a . . . presence fills the room, and when I look at it directly, it’s
amorphous, muddled, difficult to apprehend . . . I can only see detail if I glance
at it, out of the corner of my eye, but each time in do so, I see something different.
One glance: an white-haired old man, not scary or fearsome, but
twinkling and merry, kind of like a grandfather or a favorite uncle. A second glance, and there’s an eagle,
perched on the dais, staring at me from one amused, beady eye. A third glance, and it’s a woman, ageless and
full of grace. Then, it’s a mother bear,
growling over her cubs, and then Ezekiel’s whirling, fiery wheel. In my dream, it seems I stand there, for an
eternity, as image after image flood my mind, and I understand that not only am
I in God and God in me, but the same is true of all creation, we are all caught up in the same divine reality.
But
though it seems eternal, it is not,
for the Lord begins to speak. And though
we expect thundering and blustering and righteous anger, what we get instead is
heartache: “O my people, what have I
done to you? In what have I wearied you?
Answer me!” And God seems anguished,
disappointed, hurt, even, and I can’t
help but compare it to when I disappointed my parents as a child, the hurt on
their faces was somehow worse than anger . . . and as if that isn’t bad enough,
God begins recounting all God has done for us, voice almost a sob: “I brought you up from the land of
Egypt, and redeemed you from the house of slavery” he says, and in my dream I
feel the entire Presbyterian Church cringe as one, and draw in on itself,
because it knows what’s coming
next. “I sent my Son—my only Son—to earth to die to set you free from bondage to sin, and when you were caught
in other forms of bondage, I sent
great men, towering men . . . Martin
Luther . . . John Calvin . . . Martin Luther King . . . “
There
is a rumbling from the mountains, a disturbance in the hills. I hear rocks, falling as if from a great
height, and birds rose squawking from their heights, but when I look, they are still. Micah
gestures to say that it’s our turn, and the entire host of us, the entire
denomination, answers with one voice: “What do you want from us, Lord, how have we displeased you? Tell us, please! We have built a strong, fine denomination, although we admit it’s been down a bit lately, but
we have a wonderful, exacting constitution, which we follow slavishly, as is your will . . . we set the standard in world missions, although we admit reduced giving has
forced us to cut back a bit . . .” and now our voice takes on a note of whiny desperation:
“We’ve built beautiful churches, all fenestrated spire-y heights, although they’ve
been rather . . . empty of late, but it’s all been for you, Lord, solely for your glory . . . Our
worship is mighty, our hymns roll across the land—only for you, Lord, solely
for your glory—and our leaders advise presidents,
though they don’t seem to listen much lately.
What do you want from us, O
Lord? Shall we double our mission
giving, shall we quadruple it? Shall we
bankrupt ourselves, give away our homes, our cars and our tax-free IRAs? Just what is it that you want from us, O Lord?”
In
my dream, we admit that it is a poor excuse for a defense—we don’t know why that is, with so many lawyers in our midst—but it is the best
we are able to do, especially since we’re not sure what we’ve done wrong. So we watch as the prosecutor stands up, as he
goes over and confers with the judges—in our dream, it makes perfect sense that
he should be able to talk to the hills, and when he is finished he turns to us. We brace ourselves for the verdict, we hold
onto our seats for the judgment, fiery and devastating, but it doesn’t
come. Instead, Micah gazes at us for a
moment, sad-eyed and pensive, and says “God has told you, O mortals, what is
good; what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness,
and to walk humbly with your God?”
Then
I wake up. And the bed is soaked, I’m sweating so much. At the same time, I’m so cold that I’m
shivering, or maybe it’s fear, because
I am sore afraid . . . God requires
us to do justice, and I know that it
isn’t our anemic, human justice, where the ones with the best lawyers—aka the
most money—win, but mishpat, God’s justice, radical, apple-cart-overturning justice, the kind of
justice that reforms economic systems that perpetuate poverty, the kind that
gets you killed, like Stephen Biko,
María Rubio or Martin Luther King.
And
when God demands kindness, it’s not being nice to children and refraining from
kicking dogs, it’s hesed, otherwise
known as loving kindness, God’s kindness, and like God’s justice,
it is radical and fundamental, all-in
compassing, all inclusive loving
kindness, that goes into the highways and hedges, the bars and bordellos, and
invites everyone, no matter what
their race, gender, and sexual orientation,
into full participation in the community of God.
But
what really terrifies me is the last
requirement, to walk humbly with our God.
Because walking implies a journey, and it’s not just any journey, but
our life journey. This doesn’t demand
that we give a ten-percent tithe of all we make—although don’t get me wrong,
that’s a good start—nor does it demand a couple of hours a week or forty or
even eighty. Walking humbly with our God
implies a total surrender, a total turning
over of everything we have to our maker.
And
so I lie there in bed, shaking with fear, and wondering at the enormity of it
all. And as I do, as I work through the
inescapable conclusions in my mind, I can only think of one thing: thank God it was only a dream. Amen.
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