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After a lot of reflection, I’ve decided to shut down the Synchronicity Podcast, at least for the time being. One of my goals in creating the podcast was to create a space that would encourage interaction about the Christian scriptures, particularly for people on the fringes of faith. While the podcast has developed a small listener base, things have not worked out the way I hoped in terms of the development of a community.
In the meantime, something very interesting has happened: my between-episode blog posts have generated a considerable number of hits. Also, even though it has been dormant for over a year, my personal blog continues to draw a fairly significant number of page hits every day. For that reason, I’ve decided to move back into blogging.
If you’re interested in continuing to follow me, you can find me at http://theoprudence.com/. The blog will focus on a wide array of theological issues, including the interpretation of scriptures (which was the focus here). However, much of it will be written from my perspective as a practicing attorney.
Thanks to everyone who has listened to the podcast during the last year, and I hope to see you soon over at Theoprudence.
Matt
[Ed. Note – this is a re-working of a post that I did on my personal blog about two years ago]
![wonderful-798019[1]](http://synchronicitypodcast.com/wp-content/uploads/wonderful7980191_thumb.jpg "wonderful-798019[1]") It happens just about every Christmas. I sit down to watch Its a Wonderful Life, Frank Capra’s 1946 classic, and reflect once again on the remarkable journey of George Bailey.
Bailey is not a hero – not in the cinematic sense. Though the film is set in the aftermath of World War II, he never sees combat because of a hearing impairment. And although Bailey aspires to one day leave the now iconic town of Bedford Falls to design bridges and skyscrapers, the gravitational pull of his moral obligations to family and community never permit him to achieve escape velocity. To borrow a colloquialism, his life has happened while he was making other plans.
Then, disaster strikes. Bailey’s Uncle loses track of $8,000 in cash on the same day that a bank examiner is scheduled to audit Bailey’s small savings and loan. Realizing that the predicament could send him to prison, Bailey loses it. Angry and intoxicated, he crashes his car into a tree. Then, glancing at the $15,000 life insurance policy in his coat, he stands on top of a bridge, contemplating a head-long plunge into the icy river below.
Bailey later says something that haunts me more and more with each viewing. Vocalizing the motivation for ending his life, he says:
I’m worth more dead than alive.
Bailey’s sense of worth has been reduced to the sum total of what he can provide to others. His death – which would yield $15,000 to family, friends, and community – can offer far more than he will ever be able to generate from prison.
Every person who has ever been a provider for others knows this feeling of despair. It doesn’t matter what it is that we give to others – income, emotional support, physical care, or something else entirely. We sometimes get the sense that we have emptied ourselves, sacrificing our own needs and dreams in the process, and that – even then – what we have done simply and still isn’t enough. Our value, we think, is in our usefulness to others, and nothing more – and when that usefulness seems insufficient, we wonder if we have any value at all.
I think that’s why George Bailey’s story, though a little cheesy by 21st Century standards, is still compelling over a half century later. The despair that came for Bailey as he considered his own death was not well founded. In spite of all appearances, particularly when the pressure was on for him to come through, people did care about him for things other than what he could provide.
Of course, not every provider gets a Wonderful Life ending. Some endings are much, much darker.
Take Mr. Potter, Bailey’s nemisis, for example. I imagine that, as Mr. Potter neared death, he was surrounded by bickering family members who constantly positioned themselves for access to the wealth that had accumulated through his life. During his twilight years, money for Potter would become a tool for spite – his legacy literally serving as a means of reward and punishment for those who were willing to put up with his increasingly cranky, eccentric personality. Potter would one day die with wealth and he would be surrounded by people, the very things that you might expect would make him happy. But, in reality, he would be miserable and unloved.
The difference, of course, is that Bailey has invested his life, his talent, his wealth, his whole self, into other people. He hasn’t used money as means for domination and manipulation but as a way of expressing love. He may not be able to see it at particular junctures, but he is ultimately going to find that those investments will return the kinds of rewards that Potter cannot even imagine.
Bailey shares something in common with an infamous tax collector that once encountered Jesus. You may recall Zaccheaus as a diminutive man who had to climb a tree to see Jesus, but I am coming to remember him for what he would later declare to the Rabbi from Nazareth:
Look, Lord! Here and now I give half of my possessions to the poor, and if I have cheated anybody out of anything, I will pay back four times the amount.
Jesus’ response to this declaration speaks volumes to me. Today, Jesus says, salvation has come to this house.
Salvation has come…from giving things away? From becoming a Hobbit-like version of George Bailey? How so?
The answer, I think, is this.
For Zaccheaus, salvation hasn’t come in the abstract sense that his sins have been forgiven, nor has it come merely because of some pious declaration that demonstrates a new-found loyalty to Jesus. Salvation has come to Zacchaeus because he has discovered the secret of life – the kind of life that is real, eternal, and infused with Spirit of God. Salvation has come because he now knows that money can only bring joy when it is given away. In fact, it has come to all of the recipients of his generosity, people who will themselves be inspired by a small glimpse of God’s new world.
Salvation has come to Zaccheaus because he, too, has discovered what it means to live a Wonderful Life.
During this Christmas season, may Salvation come into your life. May you never despair over your worth-lessness. And may you come to discover the kind of joy that can only come from a life that gives as freely as it receives.
Luke, one of the writers in the Bible, tells a familiar story of Shepherds who are out in the field, tending their flock, when an angel appears to them, revealing that Jesus has been born in the nearby town of Bethlehem. While this story has become well-known because it serves as the first announcement of the arrival of Jesus in the world, it is also widely-regarded as proof that Jesus was not born in December.
Winters in Palestine were harsh, and it is very unlikely that shepherds would tend their flocks in the fields between October and March.
How, then, did Christians come to celebrate the birth of Jesus on December 25? The answer, it seems, has everything to do with the one symbol that – aside from the Nativity itself – has come to characterize the Christmas celebration: light.
![1120716_candle[1]](http://synchronicitypodcast.com/wp-content/uploads/1120716_candle1_thumb.jpg "1120716_candle[1]") Every year, around June 21, the Northern Hemisphere experiences its longest day of the year. More light shines on this day than any other day. After June 21, however, things begin to change. The days begin to grow shorter, darker, and – eventually – much colder. Eventually, the days become darkest, and the need for light becomes the greatest in late December.
In our time (again, in the Northern Hemisphere), the darkest day of the year – Winter Solstice – falls on December 21. However, because of discrepancies between the number of days on our calendar and the actual amount of time it takes the Earth to circle the Sun each year, the date for Winter Solstice during the times of the early Church was – you could probably guess it! – December 25.
Why pick the darkest day of the year to celebrate Jesus’ birth? The answer to this question has two parts.
The first part is more pragmatic than anything else. During the fifth century, when Christmas was first observed, Christianity was emerging out of a largely pagan culture. The pagans loved their festivals, including the mid-winter festival of Saturnalia. For Christian leaders, it probably made sense to give Christians something that seemed more, well, Jesus-y, to do when the time came for the customary pagan celebrations.
The second part, however, has nothing to do with what the pagans were up to. Instead, it has to do with the season on the Christian calendar that immediately precedes Christmas: the season of Advent.
Christ has died. Christ has risen. Christ will come again.
This liturgy, familiar to Lutherans, Anglicans, and Methodists, among others, declares the mystery of the Christian faith – Christ has come but is also coming again. These two “arrivals” of Christ within creation, called the First Advent and Second Advent, form the foundation of this seasonal observance, in which Christians reflect on and anticipate the Second Advent while simultaneously recognizing that the First Advent will soon be celebrated on December 25.
By its very nature, Advent is an observance that always occurs on the very darkest days of the year. It is characterized by lighting candles – and it fits perfectly within the same season where other festivals of lights, today found on houses, buildings, and even vehicles, are being celebrated. It reminds Christians that the world is a dark and cold place, in need of the light that Jesus brings – revealing God to us in his teachings, his example, and – ultimately – his death and resurrection.
At the conclusion of Advent, on December 25, the trend of darkness is reversed. The sun begins to linger more and more each day. Eventually, warmth and light will return to the Earth. Having observed the date on which Jesus was born, the lengthening days remind now remind Christians of the way that Jesus himself is bringing much-needed enlightenment into the world.
At many Churches, Christians will light candles in the sanctuary at the conclusion of a Christmas Eve observance. Then, each member exits the church into the night, carrying a lit candle. This, to me, is one of the most beautiful acts of symbolism in the Christian liturgy.
Darkness engulfs us, but light is emerging.
A meditation on “the sign of Emmanuel” and the meaning of Advent.
 Standard Podcast [10:40m]: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download
 I just had a chance to watch this video, which details a new anti-Obama merchandising campaign featuring Psalm 109:8. The campaign features bumper stickers, coffee mugs, t-shirts (like the one pictured here) and other items that say “Prayer for Obama” and then refer to Psalm 109:8.
Psalm 109:8 reads as follows:
May his days be few; may another seize his position (or office).
A great deal of hysteria has been generated as a result of this campaign. One commentator has even accused Obama’s opponents of trawling for assassins by suggesting that we pray for his demise.
I don’t think that most conservatives (and I know quite a few) wish for Obama’s death – and I think that, for the most part, even those who wear these shirts do so with tongue-in-cheek, thinking of it as light-hearted hyperbole in the midst of the heated debate over health care. I can also guarantee you that no conservative that I know will argue that Obama’s children should end up penniless, begging in the streets with no one to help them, as the subsequent verses in the Psalm suggest.
Still, we live in an era in which political violence seems to be spilling over in almost every corner of the globe, and – particularly in light of the emerging stories about the way Islamic fundamentalist rhetoric motivated Nidal Hasan’s actions at Ft. Hood – it seems imprudent, even foolish to further rhetoric that may unintentionally encourage extreme right-wing activists to undertake similar actions in the name of Christianity.
Having said all of that, I thought it might be interesting to have a look at Psalm 109 as a whole to see what it is actually saying, and then to consider the ways in which it might inform Christians in the debate over health care.
You can read the entirety of Psalm 109 here. It is a Psalm attributed to David. In it, the Psalmist finds himself “under attack” by an enemy. The Psalmist claims that he loves, and has even prayed for his attackers (v. 4), but that – in turn – his attackers have spoken against him with lies and hatred (v.2) and have called down curses on the Psalmist (v. 18). As a result, the Psalmist finds that his “heart is pierced” and he has become weakened as others look upon him with scorn. (v. 25).
The request of the Psalmist is for God to bring upon his accusers the curses that the accusers seem so willing to denounce on others. In the center part of the Psalm comes the disturbing images that are suggested above – he wishes that the accusers should be tried for their crimes, that they should die, along with their children, and even their children’s mothers, so that no one even remembers them in generations to come. (vv. 8-15).
Of what crimes are the accusers guilty to deserve such a fate? Simple. They were unkind, pursuing “the poor and needy and the brokenhearted” to their demise. (v. 16). Thus, the Psalmist can confidently conclude that he will ultimately be vindicated – and his accusers put to shame – because God “stands at the right hand of the needy, to save them from those who would condemn them to death.” (v. 31). In other words, God stands on the side of the poor and needy, and he will bring to a demise those who use deceptions and “curses” to preserve their positions of privilege and power over the broken
While the “Prayer for Obama” t-shirts miss the mark in terms of the applicability of Psalm 109 to the health care debate, it turns out that – in many ways - it is a perfect text for Christians to consider in the midst of the debate. Two points, in particular, stand out to me.
First, it is important that we learn to speak truth about our opponents. The “curse” of Psalm 109 centers on those who use lies and deception to bring scorn on their opponents. Thus, I think it is important that Christians prayerfully consider whether their characterizations of their opponents (and their opponents’ proposed policies) are truly fair, honest assessments.
Second, it is important for Christians to keep in mind the issue of how the policies that are being implemented will affect the poor and needy. Again, the “curse” of Psalm 109 is pronounced on those who seek to trample on the disenfranchised to their own benefit. Politics that are self-interested, to the point of disregard for the less privileged, should be avoided.
What other lessons might Psalm 109 bring to this debate?
Where does everything come to a climax? Did it happen in the last 200-300 years, as people devised and refined things like constitutional democracies, medicine, and television? Will it happen for you when you finally get that degree, or that job, or that perfect relationship? Will it happen when you get that house? That car? That new TV?
For the writer of John, there is one place – and only one place – where everything comes together. All of history was building up to a single moment – a moment when all people could finally “see” the son of God – lifted up in a single act that both exposed evil and displayed the depth of God’s love. The piercing question in John 12, and throughout the first 12 Chapters of John is this simple: Can you see it? Can you see the place where it all came together?
 “What the Gospels offer,” NT Wright tells us in Chapter 3, “is not a philosophical explanation of evil, what it is or why it’s there, nor a set of suggestions for how we might adjust our lifestyles so that evil will mysteriously disappear from the world, but the story of an event in which the living God deals with it.”
In essence, then, the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus stands as God’s answer to the cries and questionings that come from the Old Testament. God, recognizing the seriousness of evil, and the helplessness of human institutions – even Israel – to deal with it, unmasks, and then takes on the brunt of evil himself.
What is the result of this event? A church forms, whose mission is to “implement the victory of God in the world” through the same suffering love that was exemplified by Jesus in his life and death. The suffering servant motiff of the Old Testament becomes a reality both in God’s messiah, and in those who later become his disciples. In this reality, a personal understanding of God’s redemptive work must be viewed side-by-side with the practical, political realities, which require us to continue to unmask and confront evil in authorities, nations, and institutions.
Too often, Christians tend to emphasize the personal nature of Jesus’ saving work, to the exclusion of the political nature of it – or vice, versa. Wright says that both must go hand in hand. Does this hand-in-hand view of the message of the Bible make sense to you?
“It is better,” said Caiaphas, the High Priest in the year that Jesus died, “for one man to die than for the whole nation to perish.”
This statement, John tells us, meant much more than what we hear on the surface.
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 Credit: Baltimore Sun Chapter 2 of Evil and the Justice of God is entitled What Can God Do About Evil? It is not a question that NT Wright seeks to answer within this Chapter so-much as it is a summary of a question that repeats itself again and again throughout the Old Testament.
The writers of the Old Testament, he tells us, do not think of evil as a philosophical puzzle to be solved, but as a practical problem to be tackled. We are told not only that evil has infected God’s creation, but that Israel – the very people who were chosen by God to carry the solution to evil – became compromised to it as well. Worse yet, all individual humans find themselves subject to idolatry and rebelliousness.
It is this three-tiered problem of evil (that is, that evil exists in large social institutions, in the promise-bearers, and in individuals) that is bemoaned again and again by the writers of the Old Testament. God, they say, has made a commitment to root evil out of his creation, yet it continues to exist. Why hasn’t God acted yet? And when he does, what will he do?
There is no clear answer, but, Wright observes, part of the solution is linked – at least three times – to the concept of a suffering servant. His examples of the suffering servant come from the book of Job, in which the title character undergoes tremendous suffering, and asks God why it must be so, and from the book of Isaiah, which looks to Israel and to a coming person as the one who will suffer as a way of taking on the sins of the people. Wright also points to the ambiguous “son of man” in the book of Daniel, who is attacked by terrifying animals, but who defeats them.
How does this way of reading the Old Testament – as a cry for God to deal with evil, combined with brief hints that it is only by suffering of a righteous servant (or servants?) – change your perspective of what is happening in scripture? Do you think that the Old Testament riffs on any other themes that relate to evil?
 This will be the first in a series of posts that review N.T. Wright’s book Evil and the Justice of God. In this book, Wright provides an overview of the Bible’s understanding of evil, as well as God’s response to it.
In the first Chapter, Wright considers what philosophers and theologians have often called the “problem of evil”; that is, how can God allow suffering and wrongdoing in the world if he is (a) good and (b) all-powerful? He immediately points out that there is no satisfying, final solution to this problem in scripture. However, he says that the true “problem of evil” is not a philosophical one, but a practical one. Evil, he says, is something that acts as a destructive force, blowing up buildings and leaving death and suffering in its wake. If we are to truly understand evil, he argues, we cannot look at it solely as a philosophical problem.
The trend, over the last century or so, he says, is to either treat evil as something that isn’t so bad after all, or to simply deny its existence. Worse yet, when evil is ignored or downplayed, those who ignore it tend to react in exaggerated and un-helpful ways in dealing with it.
Wright concludes the chapter by pointing out that we should recognize three things in order to develop a full, healthy appreciation of the true “problem of evil”:
1. Democratic systems and open markets, though they may provide some benefits to those who live within them, are not going to solve the world’s problems.
2. Evil can manifest itself in a “supra-personal” way. That is, it can “infect” people and institutions in ways that are fitting of the language of the demonic.
3. Evil runs through all of us. Some, perhaps, moreso than others, but we over-simplify the situation when we speak of the “others” that are evil and the “we” that are good.
What do you think of Wright’s argument that evil must be seen primarily as a practical problem rather than a philosophical one? How does a conversation about evil change when the focus is “what can be done about it?” – as opposed to “why does it exist?”
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syn·chro·nic·i·ty (n)
1. The coincidental occurrence of events that seem related but are not explained by conventional mechanisms of causality.
2. A mysterious sense that one is experiencing a deep, meaningful truth.
3. (Proper) A podcast about the people and cultures that produced the Christian scriptures, and the ways that those scriptures resonate in our world.
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![wonderful-798019[1]](http://synchronicitypodcast.com/wp-content/uploads/wonderful7980191.jpg "wonderful-798019[1]")
![1120716_candle[1]](http://synchronicitypodcast.com/wp-content/uploads/1120716_candle1.jpg "1120716_candle[1]")
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