Peace at any price?

There is an idea abroad in the world that Christians are meant to be men and women of peace. To a degree, of course, it is true: it would be quite wrong to go about, wilfully stirring up trouble and provoking fights.  But I don’t believe that we are called upon to foster peace at any price. 

And what does the world call ‘peace’ anyway?

I know people who will happily persecute their neighbour, yet when the heat is turned back upon themselves, cry out for peace. They do not attach the same meaning to it that we find, for example, in the words of the heavenly host, accompanying the Angel who appeared to Mary, who said, ‘peace among those with whom he is pleased’ (Luke 2:14). 

That’s a rather different kind of peace. It has nothing to do with your earthly circumstances and everything to do with your Heavenly Father.

In Luke 12, Jesus denies that he is a bringer of peace, saying that he will cause division. Of course, this doesn’t cancel out the words of the heavenly host because they are not talking about the same thing. Christ divides because there are those who see him as he is, and accept his Lordship; and there are those whose eyes will not be opened.

Some things are far too important to be glossed over for the sake of an appearance of peace. Christians should not seek to hurt or upset others, obviously, yet the truth of the Gospel will always offend. The world today seems populated with the most sensitive people who ever lived. They deny the existence of God, but manage to be hurt by the idea that they are hell-bound sinners. Should we keep the truth from them for the sake of peace? 

Silence is not peace. Turning a blind eye to injustice is not peace. Letting others defend what you purport to hold dear does not make you a peaceful person; it just means that you’ve misunderstood the definition.

God doesn’t call on us to be simpering, acquiescent robots; he calls on us to pick a side and be prepared to defend it even against those we love best.

Immanuel

In the second year of Harold Wilson’s second government, the twenty third year of the reign of Queen Elizabeth, and the first year of Comhairle nan Eilean, Catrìona was born. ‘Abair naidheachd’, I hear you say. Nighean Mhurdanaidh Catrìona Dhòmhnaill Iain Ruaidh. ‘So what?’ you add carelessly.

Well, so what indeed. We were all born sometime and we all had parents of some description. It’s part of being human. We take all that for granted.

Why, then, does Luke place a fairly lengthy genealogy of Jesus in the middle of chapter three? Surely, when you are poised for the awe and wonder of the Son of God walking this Earth, such a mundane interlude is simply so much extraneous information. 

Look, though, where it is placed. 

Jesus is baptised, and the Holy Spirit alights upon him. It is then that God’s voice from heaven declares, ‘this is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased’.

Extraordinary. Everything about the scene tells us that this is indeed the Son of God, the promised Messiah. This is how we would have him be: exceptional.

No sooner are we growing used to this, however, than Luke intervenes. The genealogy places Jesus firmly where he was of his own free will. It reminds us not only who he was, but what he had come to accomplish.

And, for me this third of December, that is the really outstanding thing about the chapter. We know that Jesus is the Son of God, and it is no surprise to hear the Father praising his perfection. 

What causes wonder every time, though, is the other part of the story: that Jesus set his glory aside to be born into an ordinary human lineage. Then you see his remarkable baptism in a different light too. 

He was not an ordinary man, extraordinarily blessed; he was God with us. The alighting of the Spirit, and the blessing of the Father represent the total alignment of the trinity in a common purpose.

Most awe-inspiring of all is what that purpose was. 

My Eyes Have Seen Your Salvation

In Alexander Mackenzie’s famous book, ‘The Prophecies of the Brahan Seer’, his prognostications are divided into various categories, including those which have been partly fulfilled, and still others, the fulfilment of which is doubted. There is something about this classification which tends to make the already shadowy figure of Coinneach Odhar even more indistinct. We suspect both he and his gift to be less than genuine, and the visions which have not borne fruit do nothing to restore them in our eyes.

Unfulfilled prophecy in the Bible, however, does not represent failure. Because of its source, we can trust that it will come to pass. At least, we ought to, if we are in a right relationship with the Lord.

Simeon, in chapter two of Luke’s Gospel, is always a challenge to me for the simple reason that he did not give up on the promise that he would see the Saviour. It is difficult to imagine a faith so steadfast. He is rewarded in full measure, though, when he holds the infant Jesus in his arms. For me, this echoes Moses seeing the Promised Land,upon which his living foot was not destined to tread. The old man in the temple is presented with a child. All his life, he has waited for this Messiah, and when the moment of fulfilment arrives . . . there is only a tiny, little boy.

I wonder what I would have thought in Simeon’s place. Would I have been inclined to disappointment? All that waiting – and then a mere baby. Really, was this not just another promise to replace the earlier one? This child could not deliver his people from their bondage. Might I not have felt cheated that this was all God would reveal to me? Isn’t it possible that I would see only salvation postponed?

Probably, for I lack the faith – or the faithfulness – of Simeon.

But he gave thanks to God. It’s interesting that he did not say ‘for my eyes have seen the instrument of your salvation’. No, ‘my eyes have seen your salvation’. Jesus is not a means to an end; he is, himself, our salvation. Simeon in his wisdom saw that. He did not have to witness the resurrection, or even the crucifixion, to believe that here was the fulfilment of God’s promise.

Today, taking Jesus into my heart anew, I echo Simeon and give thanks to God. Not only have my eyes seen his salvation, but my soul has felt its redeeming power. An infant in the arms of a faithful old man, and the risen Christ indwelling the souls of his people are one and the same astonishing, beautiful Messiah.

Benedictus

I hope to blog my way through the Gospel of Luke, which is the ideal reading material for advent. In studying one chapter each day of December, I will have read a complete account of Jesus’ life by Christmas Eve. Therefore I expect to be more fully focused on him, the true meaning of the season by the time it is finished.

And expectation seems the right mood in which to embark on this endeavour. Chapter One is all about the anticipation of two births: John the Baptist’s, as well as that of Jesus Christ. By the end of the chapter, however, John has been born and his hitherto mute father, Zechariah, opens his mouth to prophesy.

When any child is born, into whatever circumstances, people will try to anticipate the blessings that life may hold for him. The people in the vicinity of Zechariah and Elizabeth’s home were no different, asking, ‘What, then, will this child be?’ There is a sense of awe and wonder and of infinite possibility. John’s is a life consecrated to his Lord from before birth, and the curious events surrounding him have caused all who hear of them to expect wonders.

The prophecy of his father, therefore – the Benedictus – is filled with that eager anticipation of John’s great purpose in life. Few parents, at the birth of a child, can have hoped for such a life of service, of self-denial and of subordination to another. But Zechariah places his son’s personal destiny in the context of God’s mercy to Israel. What higher purpose was there, than to be the prophet of the Saviour, proclaiming him and preparing the way of the Lord?

The beginning of Advent permits all Christians to become that child in faith again. As I begin at the beginning once more, I feel a new hope and expectation. For us now, it is not the birth of a child we look forward to, but the second coming of our victorious Messiah, by whose stripes we have been healed.

And he is refreshing me through his word, reminding me through this chapter of two things:

  • the infinite possibilities that the Christian life holds, not just at the beginning but through its repeated renewal;
  • the meaning that service to Jesus will give to the humblest of lives.

Do I feel as Zechariah did on his son’s behalf? Am I re-embarking on this journey at the start of Advent, knowing that my role is to serve, and rejoicing in that?

And am I full of that joyful expectation that grants meaning to the waiting – the waiting of Advent, and the waiting that is part and parcel of a life fully entrusted to Christ?