Tag: judgment

Before the Throne — Chapter Six — Facing the Fire

This was talk six of a sermon series preached at City South Presbyterian Church in 2024. You can listen to this on our podcast, or watch the video.

Last chapter we saw this picture of the throne room of God — and of God himself — as raw fiery power (Ezekiel 1:27). Yahweh — the God of Israel — is the ruler over all the other gods in heaven; holding court, rendering judgment (Psalm 82:1).

This is a common picture of the throne room — that it is the place where God acts as judge; where the God whose fiery power melts mountains will turn that power against evil in order to destroy it.

There is a Psalm — Psalm 11 — that brings together a few of our images. It is a Psalm of David, and he starts by saying he takes refuge in God like a bird fleeing to its mountain.

He is fleeing because injustice seems to be winning; the wicked are flinging arrows at him, shooting from the dark at the upright in heart. Where else can the good go but the heavenly throne; where God is — enthroned in his heavenly temple. These are images we have been bringing together — the mountain, the throne, the temple.

David is confident that God is, from his throne, examining the righteous — and the wicked. Those who love violence — he is judging them. He hates this violence with a passion, and he will rain fire: fiery coals and burning sulfur — there are those coals again. There will be a scorching wind as his power moves against the wicked in judgment; a sort of purifying fire. David is confident God is just; that he loves justice — and the upright will see God (Psalm 11:1-7).

The throne room as a courtroom is a picture we also see right at the end of the Bible’s story. Again these thrones in heaven are occupied by these authorities, but around the throne there is a cloud of witnesses — these martyred Christians, people beheaded because of their testimony about Jesus — people crying out for justice (Revelation 20:4).

This crew is first described back in chapter 6 of Revelation — the faithful testifiers who have been killed — who are at the throne asking, “How long, O Lord, until you judge and avenge…” until you bring justice for our deaths.

And they are told, “Wait… wait a little longer…” not because God is sitting on his hands, or because he is waiting for the world to turn to him. He says, “Wait until the full number of witnesses have been killed” (Revelation 6:9-11).

That is hard. It is hard when we have our own suffering and identify with those crying out. It is an awful reason to wait — if our suffering is ultimate; and often it feels like it is.

But in the vision of Revelation, God’s justice comes — these martyrs are raised up to reign on the throne with Jesus (Revelation 20:4). We are not going down the thousand year rabbit hole today.

Our eyes are drawn to a great white throne of the God whose power overwhelms the heavens and the earth.

And God is judging all the dead according to their actions — every human ever to have lived and died will come before the throne and be judged:

“Then I saw a great white throne and him who was seated on it. The earth and the heavens fled from his presence, and there was no place for them. And I saw the dead, great and small, standing before the throne, and books were opened. Another book was opened, which is the book of life. The dead were judged according to what they had done as recorded in the books.”
— Revelation 20:11-12

Ultimately death itself, and the place of the dead, and all those whose names are not written in the book of life — and especially those who have been opposed to God’s kingdom and his faithful witnesses who do not repent — these people will experience the fiery judgment of God. The power of God we saw last week is turned on them in what Revelation calls the second death (Revelation 20:14-15).

And this picture might make us uncomfortable — partly at the idea of the books being opened and our lives being exposed — but also for reasons on two poles. Some of us find it hard to believe an all-powerful, loving God could be violent like this; could judge — especially if he might judge us, or people we love. On the other hand — some of us who have suffered evil might be like the martyrs crying out for justice; wondering why God has not stepped in — if he is absent, powerless, or even if he is good.

Navigating this tension is one of the hardest parts of belief in Jesus. It is where the problem of evil and suffering leads people on either end of this spectrum away from God’s throne. I wonder what happens if we take these problems directly to God’s throne.

We can try to rationalise our way through these tensions, but I wonder if rightly imagining the throne room of heaven and encountering the God enthroned helps us resolve these tensions better than just knowing facts. If we add our voices to the witnesses around the throne, and see him as the one who can answer our cries — calling out for justice while experiencing mercy — this might help us with another tension.

See — we have been pondering how entering the throne room of heaven, as those raised and seated with Jesus, is meant to shape our lives on earth. So what do we do with this picture of God’s raw power falling with such violence in the name of justice?

Coming before God as the one who can answer these cries; adding our voices to those testifying in heaven; calling for justice while experiencing mercy teaches us that our job is not to enact God’s job for him, and to leave justice in his hands, or in the hands of those who wield the sword.

There is a theologian named Miroslav Volf who has been helpful for me in navigating these tensions. He is a Croatian who grew up in the Republic of Yugoslavia. His most famous book is called Exclusion and Embrace; his reflections on the genocide that took place as the Republic dissolved. Volf’s life is marked by injustice. His father — a pastor — had been held in a concentration camp. Volf himself was completing his PhD overseas when Serbian soldiers were conducting an ethnic cleansing of his homeland, targeting his neighbours and family. His PhD supervisor asked him if, given his commitment to non-violence, he would be able to embrace one of these soldiers. These are some of his reflections as we navigate our discomfort with God acting in judgment.

For Volf, a God not grieved — angry even — at injustice, who does not act to end violence, would not be worthy of worship. He argues that the belief that God will not, with some sort of violence, end injustice actually creates the conditions for human-on-human violence — there is no fear of God to restrain human evil. To commit to human nonviolence requires the belief God will bring justice; vengeance even — where we have withheld it.

For Volf — some of the discomfort we westerners feel about judgment and justice from God is a product of western privilege — a “quiet suburban home in a peaceful country.” This sort of judgment can feel unnecessary for us. Whereas in a scorched land, soaked in the blood of the innocent, where people are crying out for justice — it dies quickly.

Here is an extended set of his words:

“If God were not angry at injustice and deception and did not make the final end to violence God would not be worthy of our worship… violence thrives, secretly nourished by belief in a God who refuses to wield the sword… the practice of nonviolence requires a belief in divine vengeance… It takes the quiet of a suburban home for the birth of the thesis that human nonviolence corresponds to God’s refusal to judge… In a scorched land, soaked in the blood of the innocent, it will invariably die.”

We will come back to Volf — but let us grant that this might be true — as we imagine coming face-to-face with the holy God who will bring judgment and justice. Our readings from Isaiah are a picture of doing this — of this heavenly court.

Isaiah approaches this holy God — recognising he deserves judgment — and is not destroyed, but is made holy; which, through Jesus, becomes our story too.

We read about Isaiah’s encounter with God in his throne room — which, like with Ezekiel last week, is part of his commissioning to carry a message from the throne to earth. And his message is one of judgment.

We read this in chapter one — Isaiah is carrying God’s declaration that his children have rebelled against him (Isaiah 1:2). Zion will be delivered with justice — there will be some faithful ones left, but rebels and sinners will be broken and those who forsake God will perish (Isaiah 1:27-28).

This Zion that is delivered — it is the mountain of the Lord’s temple. This is imagery we have seen of the heavenly throne room coming to earth. When this happens the nations will stream up the mountain, to the temple; before the throne. They will be saying, “He is going to teach us to walk in his paths.”

The law will go out from this temple mountain; the word of God from Jerusalem. And he will judge from his throne and settle disputes (Isaiah 2:2-4).

And just in case we think the task of those meeting God in this throne room — the God who is going to enact justice — should lead to violence in the name of bringing heaven on earth by eradicating evil ourselves — that is the opposite of the picture Isaiah paints. People meeting God in this throne room will forgo violence; they will beat their swords — their weapons — into tools to create food and peace and prosperity. Nations will not go to war against one another or train for war (Isaiah 2:4).

Now, this is a vision of the new creation — and while it would be amazing if all the combatants in modern wars were confronted with this picture of the heavenly throne room, or any violent individual laid down their weapons or their desire to hurt others — this is not necessarily a call to total pacifism now. God appoints people to wield the sword and to enact justice — and that has to be part of our picture when we experience evil and injustice.

But this is not the role of his heaven-on-earth people; the church; those called to walk in the light of the Lord (Isaiah 2:5). We can only do this — we can only choose non-violence as a “just” heaven-on-earth way of life if we truly believe God will act to bring this ultimate justice and use his power to make all things new.

I wonder how often our desire to seize control, and the small ways we choose violence, or wield power over others in various ways — with our words, or the way we position ourselves to exclude others, or the ways we seek revenge with whatever tools we have — shows that we do not always believe God will act this way. Perhaps part of this is because we are not in the habit of asking him to do so.

In chapter 6, Isaiah has his heavenly encounter where he is commissioned to take this message of judgment to his people and the world. He sees the Lord — Yahweh — high and exalted — seated on the throne. This is in a sort of heavenly temple — or a heaven-on-earth temple — because he sees God’s robe filling the temple; cascading down off the throne (Isaiah 6:1).

Where Ezekiel saw those heavenly cherubim, Isaiah sees seraphim (Isaiah 6:2). Their name comes from the word for “burning ones” — they are bright shiny creatures — sometimes pictured as winged serpents in nations around Israel. I guess you could call them fire-breathing dragons. They have six wings, and they are flying above the throne, singing:

“Holy, holy, holy, is Yahweh Most High — the Lord God Almighty — the earth is filled with his glory.” (Isaiah 6:3)

This is a song that emphasises some of the qualities of the one on the throne; especially his holiness — his absolute perfection; his inability to abide impure things, and the idea this light will consume everything.

The whole cosmic temple shakes and there is smoke (Isaiah 6:4). It is like when God settles on the temple in 1 Kings — and a bit like when tongues of fire settle on God’s living temple in Acts to mark us as holy.

Isaiah is overwhelmed; he is thinking back to Moses on Sinai and the threat of death that accompanies being in the presence of God’s holy power. He cries, “Woe to me! I am ruined — destroyed…” It is because he is not holy — he is a man of unclean lips. He falls short of God’s perfection. He is meant to be a prophet whose lips will speak God’s words to a people whose lips should speak for God. He falls short of God’s holiness and has entered the most holy place. Now his eyes have seen the King — the Lord Almighty — enthroned in heaven, and this should be the end for him (Isaiah 6:5).

Only — rather than the fiery power of God obliterating him — he experiences mercy. One of the burning ones, who serves the burning powerful God with his burning throne, flies over to Isaiah with a live coal in his hand from the altar (Isaiah 6:6). This is fire from heaven. There are rules in the Old Testament law about the fire on the altar in the holy place never going out (Leviticus 6:13), because it was lit by God when his glory appeared when the tabernacle was completed (Leviticus 9:23-24).

As this burning one approaches, Isaiah must imagine he is about to be burned up, but the seraph uses this heavenly fire to purify his unclean lips. This heavenly fire becomes a gift; his guilt is burned away; his sin atoned for (Isaiah 6:7).

When God asks, “Who will I send to speak for me?” Isaiah says, “Pick me” (Isaiah 6:8). It is not an easy message either. He is carrying the message from the start of the book — an announcement of God’s fiery judgment (Isaiah 1:2). His job is not to cleanse the lips of these rebellious people, but to show how their commitment to dead idols has deadened their hearts. Isaiah’s words are going to confirm this judgment; their hearts will become calloused in response; their eyes blind; their ears deaf. They will hear this message and will not turn back and be healed. Anyone who has been crying out for justice will see it, while those who oppose God’s plan for a heaven-on-earth renewal will experience it (Isaiah 6:10).

This is where Isaiah asks, “How long, Lord?” — “How long do I have to carry this message of judgment and despair?” And God says: until the stuff that gets in the way is cleared; until the land is empty and a blank slate for re-creation (Isaiah 6:11). That is an interesting parallel to the martyrs at the throne in Revelation — God’s people asking, “How long?” “When will you act?” (Isaiah 6:11; Revelation 6:10).

The delay between the announcement and the judgment creates this period where people hearing can respond; but their response will often be to confirm that judgment is deserved as they turn on God’s witnesses (Isaiah 6:11; Revelation 6:11). That can feel hard when we are part of those witnesses — or when we are experiencing the violence of the wicked and seeking refuge in God’s throne room. That wait is only bearable if God will act justly; if he will actually make amends and heal and restore.

The end of the book of Isaiah depicts God speaking in judgment:

“Heaven is my throne, the earth my footstool. Where is the house you will build for me? Where will I rest?”

But nobody is building this house; his nation has chosen their own ways, not his — delighting in abominations, rejecting God — so he will remove them. When he called, nobody answered; they were too busy doing evil (Isaiah 66:1-4). So Yahweh promises he will come with fire; fiery chariots like his throne from Ezekiel — bringing his anger and rebuke and flames of fury; coming with fire and his sword and executing judgment on all people (Isaiah 66:15-16).

Why? How can a God who is good and loving do this?

We would have to believe the evildoers are actually doing evil — and humans doing evil should not be hard for us to imagine. As a thought experiment: imagine that God is good and has held off as long as he could, but has to balance the reality that inaction fosters evil — and weigh this evil against his holiness and his desire for renewal; a world free of evil. How can God claim to be just if the violent and wicked truly prosper?

This is so the vision of Isaiah 2 can happen — people from all nations coming to the mountain throne, becoming priests of God. In a new heavens and new earth the opposition to this plan has to be removed so those who dwell in God’s presence can endure forever and live lives of peace (Isaiah 66:20-22).

Isaiah’s throne room encounter is a picture of this; of a human coming into God’s presence to be made holy; to be purified; to become a witness to God’s kingdom as he receives forgiveness of sins — atonement — so that he can not just be in God’s presence in heaven without being destroyed, but carry God’s word into the world.

This is a confronting picture, is it not? When we imagine God as holy and just, turning heavenly power against evil — even the evil that lurks on our lips and in our hearts. Are you prepared to expose yourself to God for this to happen — knowing it might involve some pain, but that to refuse to come before the throne of the judge means being brought before the judge on his terms?

Isaiah is a picture of this, but not the final picture. His encounter points to God’s redemption of humanity — his invitation into his throne room through Jesus. To come before his throne still involves being transformed — being made holy — by heavenly fire, but this happens because Jesus absorbs the fiery judgment of God to remove our guilt, atoning for us as the Lamb of God, so that the fiery power of God — the Spirit — might dwell in us without destroying us.

John — who (I think, though this is debated) wrote Revelation — says a bunch of things about Jesus that we will look at next week, but there are a couple of things in chapter 1 of his Gospel that are crucial as we imagine coming before the throne of the judge. John talks about Jesus, the Word of God, coming into the world — his own — and being rejected (John 1:11). Crucified. This is the ultimate expression of violent human rebellion. When he describes Jesus “tabernacling” with us, he says that in Jesus we are beholding God’s glory; there is not a God in heaven who is not revealed in the life of Jesus (John 1:14). Then he calls Jesus the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world (John 1:29) — a lamb did that in the Old Testament by being a sacrifice in the place of God’s people; whose blood would lead God’s judgment to pass over his people.

In one of his letters, John also talks about Jesus being our advocate in heaven; standing for us in the throne room like a lawyer when those books are opened — saying, “This one is mine” — and the atoning sacrifice for our sins; the one who absorbs the blow, like a sacrificial lamb, so that we might enter the throne room and not be consumed — and not just us. His offer is to the whole world (1 John 2:1-2). Jesus is God’s offer of merciful embrace to the world; an invitation to be included in his life. He changes our picture of heaven — when John describes his vision of heaven in Revelation he sees a slain Lamb on the throne (Revelation 5:6).

When we imagine heaven and this throne, we are not just picturing the raw, fiery power of a vengeful God, but a just God with his beloved God-King enthroned with him — a slain Lamb bearing the scars of encountering human violence and evil; scarred on our behalf so he might advocate for us, bringing us before the throne, testifying on behalf of those who testify to him, and sharing his throne with us in his kingdom — sins forgiven, scars healed, raised to life with him forever, while justice is served.

Miroslav Volf — who observed the horrors of human violence up close — says this image helps resolve our concerns about God’s judgment. While Revelation pictures Jesus riding a white horse, violently destroying those who have harmed his faithful witnesses, Volf says:

“The violence of the Rider on the white horse, I suggest, is the symbolic portrayal of the final exclusion of everything that refuses to be redeemed by God’s suffering love.”

Revelation wrestles with the tension of the timing of this judgment, but it has to come because, for God not to act — not because he is eager to pull the trigger, but because every day he is patient and holds back — violence (the same sort of violence turned on the Lamb) multiplies.

Volf again:

“The day of reckoning must come, not because God is too eager to pull the trigger, but because every day of patience in a world of violence means more violence. God’s patience is costly, not simply for God, but for the innocent.”

God’s patience comes at a cost for those harmed by evil — and some of us feel that cost and bear those scars. But it is the slain Lamb who offers comfort to those of us who are scarred; who cry out, “How long?” Those of us wounded and suffering have a wounded and suffering King who knows our pain; and it is the slain Lamb who reminds us of God’s love and mercy — that he is good and just; that he has suffered evil; that at the heart of God’s heavenly rule and his justice is the cross. “At the center of the throne, we find the sacrificed Lamb… At the very heart of ‘the One who sits on the throne’ is the cross,” Volf writes. The one who rules — who we approach in prayer; who we might picture as we picture the glory of heaven — took human and cosmic rebellious violence upon himself while taking on God’s fiery power, to make the unholy holy, to conquer enmity and embrace the enemy. “The world to come is ruled by the one who on the cross took violence upon himself in order to conquer the enmity and embrace the enemy. The Lamb’s rule is legitimized not by the ‘sword’ but by the ‘wounds’; the goal of its rule is not to subject but to make people ‘reign for ever and ever.’”

So how do our lives on earth reflect this reality in heaven — where God the Father and God the slain Lamb exercise judgment from the throne, and the Lamb advocates for us? What do we do with this picture?

First, if judgment is a reality, we — like Isaiah — can find refuge by approaching God’s throne in confession and repentance, knowing our sinful hearts and bodies and mouths should be destroyed by this fire; but coming all the more willingly because we know that our sin and its punishment have been dealt with not by fiery coals from the altar, but by God in the violent death of the Lamb, so that we can be forgiven and atoned for — and made holy as we receive the Spirit as our own fire from heaven.

Second, if we have found refuge here — as forgiven sinners — and if we have been transformed, there is an obligation to testify to this Lamb who testifies on our behalf; not just proclaiming the fiery God who will judge evil, but the slain Lamb who offers embrace. We can name the evil in our own lives and bring it to God’s throne to be transformed, and be sent into the world. And part of lives that testify to this reality is not to embrace violence in pursuit of justice, but to embrace the non-violence pictured in Isaiah (Isaiah 2:4), trusting that God will judge and be just; and that while our cries might feel unheard, he hears and will act.

Third, as those with access to this throne room — who have the slain Lamb as not just our King but our advocate — those of us whose hearts are captured by this vision of God’s nature are able to cry out for justice; naming the way our own wounds and scars are products of the evil of others — and even knowing we will be resurrected and enthroned — we are able to call out, “How long, O Lord?” and to expect an answer, and to know that we do not just have permission to call out to God this way, but an advocate and a God who delivers justice, not just at the end of the world, but as its ruler.

A few weeks ago, when we pictured heaven as a mountain, we looked at how the Psalms of Ascent might become part of what shapes our language and imagination as we approach God’s throne. As we think about crying out for justice there are a couple of types of psalm we might use to shape our prayers. We might be moved to lament — to carry our anger and grief to God, knowing that he cares and will bring justice — and that our own healing and transformation happens through encountering him, not running from him. But we might also be moved to call down judgment from heaven — there are psalms called imprecatory or curse psalms. Some of them are full of graphic imagery as God’s people cry out for justice; for judgment; for the destruction of the wicked. It is fair to say Christians have not been sure how to pray these psalms — and that we should be careful not to position ourselves as judge, or to refuse the idea of mercy, or that God might embrace those who have hurt us in a way that brings them to transformation and repentance. Yet in our experience of injustice these psalms might give us some words to say to God, where — even if our limits and perspective are wrong — they bring us towards God, rather than away from him, in our suffering. About one in ten psalms include the psalmist crying out for justice.

One of the more famous — and more graphic — is Psalm 58. It says “even from birth the wicked go astray.” It says they are like snakes; spawn of the evil one; their poison is destructive (Psalm 58:3-4). This is another psalm of David, and he prays that God would break the teeth in the mouths of these evil humans — these powers — that their evil might fail, and that they might be destroyed and disappear (Psalm 58:6-7).

It is not ungodly to come before the throne of the just judge to pray for the destruction of evil; for those who have harmed or are harming us; to ask him to act. We would have to have a wrong picture of heaven if we never did this.

September 20, 2025 Add Comment

What the Hell?

Look. There are plenty of issues that should be occupying your attention as a global citizen, but the question of the eternal destiny of people is a big one and worth probing a bit; especially as it relates to how Christians operate in the here and now.

“People’s lives are not for me to judge. Only God can do that.

I have sinned many times in my life. I take responsibility for those sins and ask for forgiveness through repentance daily.” — Israel Folau

In the fallout to his controversial answer to the question ‘what is God’s plan for gay people,’ Israel published a long piece titled ‘I’m a sinner too,’ and it’s good, but it has also revealed some issues facing Christians in Australia that are much bigger than religious freedom or freedom of speech. The issue seems to me to be that people in Australia expect us Christians to be trying to ‘play God’ when it comes to how they live, while simultaneously believing that the idea of any god is harmful nonsense, when the function of God’s judgment isn’t to have us reaching for the pitchfork and forming angry mobs, but taking up our cross and laying down our lives in sacrificial love in the hope others might experience God’s merciful love, and the gift of life.

There are two very public responses to Folau’s two pieces that I’ve found particularly provocative… this one, from University of Queensland Political Science professor, Katharine Gelber, and this tweet (and resulting media storm) from one-test All Black Brad Weber. Weber tweeted:

“Kinda sick of us players staying quiet on some of this stuff. I can’t stand that I have to play this game that I love with people, like Folau, who say what he’s saying My cousin and her partner, and my Aunty and her partner are some of the most kind, caring & loving people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. To think that I play against someone that says they’ll go to Hell for being gay disgusts me.”

There’s been a whole lot of hatred, outrage, and ‘disgust’ from people who don’t believe in the God Israel believes in, or the Hell he speaks of… and a lot of this outrage is built on a fundamental misunderstanding of how belief in hell is meant to work in the life of a Christian towards those who are facing it.

Hell isn’t meant to motivate us to hate others; but to love them. 

There are plenty of good reasons to be outraged at God and the prospect of Hell if you do believe in God; but there’s only two reasons I can see to be disgusted about the idea of Hell if you’re Brad Weber; one is the reason given by Peter FitzSimons in his piece on Folau — the mental and emotional wellbeing of gay people in Christian communities who believe there’s a destination just for them just because of their sexuality (which is part of why I didn’t like Folau’s first post, and love his second), two is if belief in Hell as the appropriate destination for ‘those people’ caused Christians to act judgmentally or with hatred towards ‘those people’ (in this case, gay people, but the ‘those’ can be just about any group because all groups of people, all people, are heading towards God’s judgment without Jesus, if the Bible is true).

And here’s the rub — I can see why people would believe that Christians take the judgment of God and use it to make moral judgments of others and to cause harm rather than using God’s judgment as motivation the same way Jesus did — to sacrificially love those who are God’s enemies in the hope that in laying down your life for them in myriad ways they might be confronted and arrested by the great sacrificial love God has for them…

Hell — or God’s judgment — isn’t meant to motivate us to sit in judgment over others, but to love them.

We aren’t God. To put ourselves in God’s position is the very definition of sin, the ‘original’ sin.

If Israel’s answer to the question ‘what is God’s plan for gay people’ is the same as his answer to ‘where would you like gay people to end up’, then there’s a real problem. If he puts himself in God’s place and acts as though he is God — or if we do — then there’s a problem… which is why his follow up is so important.

The problem in the other direction is a whole bunch of secular people who aren’t conversant with Christian teaching (but perhaps are with Christian practice) assuming that you can infer an ‘ought’ from this ‘is’ — that saying someone is destined for Hell is a personal expression of judgment and an assumption that ‘you’ are worse than ‘me’… to say judgment exists is not to say someone is more deserving of it than we are (even if it often comes across that way), nor is it to say we should treat a person differently to how we expect to be treated — two of the fundamental moral teachings of Jesus are ‘love your enemies’ and ‘treat others as you would have them treat you.’

Watching people who don’t share these categories try to understand and respond to what they think they mean is as painful as the meme pointing out that homosexuality is ruled out in Leviticus, but so are tattoos and Israel proudly has those — it’s just a poor understanding of how the Bible works from cover to cover (in case you’re wondering: there are several references to homosexuality in the New Testament letters to churches, and the idea that Old Testament Jewish laws should apply directly to non-Jewish converts was the subject of debates recorded in the Bible, in Acts 15, the Old Testament pointed to and is fulfilled in Jesus (Matthew 5, Luke 24)).

Hell and judgment are meant to motivate us to say ‘there but for the grace of God go I…’; to have us put ourselves in the shoes of the other.

God’s plan for his people is that we be like Jesus, inviting people to know the reconciling love of God, as his ambassadors, so that we no longer face eternal death and judgment, but eternal life. Here are a couple of quotes from the Bible (from the apostle Paul, about how he lived, and how Christians should live, if the stuff about death and judgment, and Jesus, is real). He says:

“For we must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ, so that each of us may receive what is due us for the things done while in the body, whether good or bad.” — 2 Corinthians 5:10

This judgment thing is fundamental to Christian belief. It’s not an added extra (and it’s not us sitting in the judgment seat, but Jesus, it’s not ‘our plan’ but God’s plan). And this reality motivates Paul’s way of life with people who are facing judgment.

He says:

“Since, then, we know what it is to fear the Lord, we try to persuade others.” — 2 Corinthians 5:11

And then, that this persuasion isn’t motivated by earning bonus points with God, or to persuade people that they deserve judgment, but instead to love, and to invite people to experience the love of God.

For Christ’s love compels us, because we are convinced that one died for all, and therefore all died. And he died for all, that those who live should no longer live for themselves but for him who died for them and was raised again. So from now on we regard no one from a worldly point of view. Though we once regarded Christ in this way, we do so no longer. Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here! All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ and gave us the ministry of reconciliation: that God was reconciling the world to himself in Christ, not counting people’s sins against them. And he has committed to us the message of reconciliation. We are therefore Christ’s ambassadors, as though God were making his appeal through us. We implore you on Christ’s behalf: Be reconciled to God” — 2 Corinthians 5:14-21

If there’s no sin, and no judgment, then there’s no need for this reconciliation stuff — but Paul’s profound motivation for speaking about sin, death, judgment, and Jesus is God’s love; it’s taking that loving invitation to the world that needs it.

The thought of people facing death and judgment is so troubling for God that he sent Jesus to die on a cross as an act of reconciliation; he took the first step. This stuff only makes sense if you’re prepared to believe there’s a God who has a standard, and that we fall short of that standard (what we call ‘sin’ — literally, etymologically, an archery term for ‘falling short of the target’), and that this falling short is total (not just about our sexuality or particular ‘transgressions’), a deliberate departure from God’s will, and destructive for ourselves, others, and the world, and means we don’t get heaven but face judgment. Without these categories anything a Christian says about God, hell, Jesus, reconciliation or judgment will sound like nonsense.

But for people who do operate with those categories, one needs to consider how they operate to produce a coherent way of life rather than just picking one bit to get offended at in isolation.

Paul also says, elsewhere:

“Therefore, I urge you, brothers and sisters, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God—this is your true and proper worship.” — Romans 12:1

The ‘in view of God’s mercy’ bit; if you were going to unpack that, is basically ‘because you are meant to face God’s anger and judgment as his enemy, and instead, through Jesus, are his child’ — the reality of God’s judgment and our place as Christians is that we’re meant to lay down our lives just like Jesus, in response to God’s love for us.

There’s lots of good reasons to probe around Christian beliefs and teachings around Hell (and lots of how we picture Hell that comes more from Dante’s fiction than from the Bible, and a reasonable theological case to be made for conditional immortality as an alternative to eternal death-as-death); but the idea that Christians believing or speaking about Hell is inherently evil or harmful, is only really true if either ‘being told things we disagree with and don’t like to hear’ is evil, or if somehow we’re acting not just as messenger but judge, jury, and executioner and sending people there ourselves, when we deserve exactly the same fate. It’s really God that Weber should take umbrage with, not Folau.

In his follow up, Folau said:

I think of it this way: you see someone who is about to walk into a hole and have the chance to save him. He might be determined to maintain his course and doesn’t want to hear what you have to say. But if you don’t tell him the truth, as unpopular as it might be, he is going to fall into that hole. What do you do?

In this case, we are talking about sin as the Bible describes it, not just homosexuality, which I think has been lost on a lot of people.

This is good stuff — though that last line troubles me because I think it was Folau’s initial answer that created what was ‘lost on a lot of people’… and it presents a dilemma for Christians if views like Weber’s or Professor Gelber’s start to shape the way public conversations about the afterlife happen.

Professor Gelber raises the spectre of Folau being brought the courts on vilification charges; it’s a fascinating thought experiment revealing the default assumptions in the secular frame our academy, political and legal spheres have adopted — which will be utterly incompetent for assessing issues around religious freedoms if allowed to sit unchallenged, and if they can’t make room for the assumptions of religious participants in a truly secular (no official state religion), pluralist (many religious groupings), society.

My view is that it is unlikely the comment would reach the threshold of vilification, by which is meant that the comment was capable of inciting hatred in its audience against a member of the targeted group.

Well. What a relief. But given his comments were, by (theological) definition designed to be both an act of love in themselves, and are reflective of a theological belief that should motivate love for the member of a targeted group either our society has problems in how it perceives Christians and understands this stuff, or the way we Christians take this teaching and run with it is problematic.

Professor Gelber, like many in a post-enchanted secular world where there is no transcendent or divine foundation for morality or ethics has adopted an ethical framework based on harm, our apparent right not to be harmed, and our responsibility not to cause it.

“The responsibility that attaches to freedom of speech is the responsibility not to use one’s words, or one’s position, to hurt others. And despite the nursery rhymes, we know now that words can hurt, and hurt badly.”

Words about hell, judgment, or death, certainly describe something harmful and a prospect that is meant to motivate us to consider how we then live; but if hell is real, and Israel believes that it is, then the harm based ethic becomes a paradox. Who gets to define or choose which harm Israel should perpetrate on his neighbour — the harm potentially caused by speaking what he believes to be true, or the harm potentially caused by not speaking what he believes to be true? Gelber wants Folau to be a ‘role model’ and use his platform carefully, and responsibly, to minimise harm — but that is precisely what he was attempting to do.

“Folau has failed to appreciate the special responsibilities he carries as a role model for young people everywhere.

He is entitled to his religiously influenced view. But as a role model and national sporting star he should not have chosen to air a view so imbued with prejudice on the stage that is social media.

The best take-home from all of this should be a greater appreciation of the fact that words matter, and that the more powerful the speaker, the more aware of this they should be.”

What’s really going on here is a value judgment, from Weber and Gelber, that Christian beliefs are nonsense, ‘imbued with prejudice’ and so airing them is, essentially, always harmful (and again, a caveat, Folau’s answer would have been much less controversial if he’d broadened it immediately to include himself as a sinner, as he did in his follow up, rather than answering the question as framed).

Perhaps we’ve given them the ammunition for this belief by assuming we can operate in a secular world with totalising ‘natural’ arguments, rather than asking for our religious ones to be accommodated (like in the marriage debate), and by not denouncing those who do attempt to respond to sin with judgment (and exclusion) rather than with costly, sacrificial, love.

Love isn’t love; that’s a fluffy logical nonsense… but.

The cross is love. 

A loving response to God’s judgment, and God’s own invitation to be reconciled to him, by grace, not because we’re more deserving than anybody else but because we accept the invitation.

April 19, 2018

How The Punisher is a picture of justice without God

Mild, very mild, spoilers. 

Remember you are only human. You’re going to die.

I’m a sucker for the Netflix section of the Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU); the gritty ‘street level hero’ excites me more than the fly-in-fly-out Avengers, and the even more infinitely removed Guardians of the Galaxy (though I do enjoy those). The big guys in the MCU are set to fight the ‘infinity wars’, and they’ve left a power vacuum in street level New York. The city is reeling and trying to figure out what these big heroes mean for the pursuit of justice, and even what heroism means; while the physical fallout from the Avengers explosive battle with the ‘chitauri’ (Avengers 1) — dubbed ‘the incident’ — has created opportunities for exploitative and opportunistic criminals to step in (which is pretty much the story of Spider-Man: Homecoming, and Netflix’s Daredevil).

Remember you are only human. You’re going to die.

I’m also a sucker for The Punisher. Frank Castle. He’s perhaps my favourite Marvel antihero. I grew up reading Phantom comics, so his ‘death’s head’ symbol and willingness to kill criminals in pursuit of justice not just mark them with a skull from a fancy ring (ala the Phantom) makes him feel like a grown up superhero. His story — where he is pursuing justice, or seeking vengeance, after his wife and kids were slaughtered is, perhaps, more poignant now I have a wife and kids. Plus I enjoy his aesthetic generally, and the Marvel take on it specifically (though this series is gritty and violent, and there were scenes where I had to look away or cover the screen of my laptop with my hands (I couldn’t watch this series with Robyn)).

 

Marvel introduced us to this version of The Punisher in Daredevil season 2; which was framed as a battle between darkness and light — between the conflicted (though blind so permanently in darkness), thoroughly Catholic, ‘Devil of Hell’s Kitchen’ who refuses to take life, and The Punisher’s dark pursuit of the violent end of his enemies. There’s a scene in this latest series where the TV news reports Castle has killed 37 people, his new ally Micro (a hacker with his own score to settle), turns to him incredulous. 37? Castle replies that this is just the number they know about. He is judge, jury, and executioner just without Judge Dredd’s state sanction.

Remember you are only human. You’re going to die.

This season is a battle for Castle’s soul — or his own battle to keep his soul in the face of his personal devastation.

And I can sympathise with him. If this life is all there is, and it seems to be in the story, the Punisher offers some hope for justice in the face of the state’s failings. Unlike Daredevil, whose religious faith is overt and shapes everything, The Punisher seems to operate in what philosopher Charles Taylor calls ‘the immanent frame’, he’s not haunted by questions of whether his victims are ‘made in the image of God’ and so capable of good, he’s not fascinated by an afterlife, such that his ethics are driven by his sense of where he’s going… he just wants to cause pain, as proximately as possible to the pain caused to him and his family, to those who perpetrated evil against him. He is the grim reaper. The personification of death. The knock at the door for these criminals who are part of a complex system of evil — and for those who happen to incidentally cross his path during this crusade.

Remember you are only human. You’re going to die.

There are moments where Frank has to decide whether to live or die, and a vision of his deceased wife beckoning at him from the other side of death suggests there is something more; but that he refuses to take that step in order to pursue his vengeance suggests he doesn’t have any certainty that these visions are anything other than a delusion.

So if this life is all there is; if there is no hope for justice beyond the grave; then what does justice actually look like in the face of awful systemic crime, that exploits and that treats human life as cannon fodder? That’s the question the Punisher forces us to ask as viewers. In all its grit, blood, mess, and violence. If this flesh and blood existence is all there is, then how do you extract the price required to restore balance — how does the classic view of ‘justice’ (the blind lady with the scales) operate in response to deadly evil?

How does a human participate in the bringing of justice in response to evil without taking on some of that evil? Or admitting that it actually lies there in every human heart? Whose hands are clean enough to exact vengeance without crossing a line into something impure? Or how does one get dirty hands, in the grit, blood, mess, and violence of this world without continuing the vicious cycle?

If this world is all there is, if the dead are not raised, if there is no God who judges, then I want The Punisher in this world, but I don’t want to be the Punisher, and I think it’s reasonably clear (and this is something that both the Marvel and DC cinematic franchises are grappling with) that violence begets violence. In the DC world there’s the perennial suggestion that Batman being the personification of fear, armed with fancy gadgets, has forced Gotham’s criminal underworld to evolve (and so compete) and so you get the cartoonish roll of villains from The Joker to Catwoman (and everyone in between)… what sort of New York exists five years from The Punisher season 1?

What is justice? Where is it found? Castle’s hacker sidekick has this dialogue with the purer face of justice, Agent Dinah Midani, about why he’s thrown in his lot with The Punisher not with the system.

Micro: You want justice. Because you haven’t figured out that there is no such thing yet… 

Agent Madani: You don’t believe in justice?

Micro: No I did. I did. You were it. You and the system. I’ve learned different. 

Agent Madani: Good men have died trying to expose this thing. They believed. 

Micro: Well. I believe the only way to get these assholes is to become like them. 

Agent Madani: No. I don’t believe that. 

Micro: You will. In the end.

The only way to get these assholes is to become like them.

There’s a cost.

To fight evil and pursue justice, in the world of The Punisher, you have to become evil. In a world where death is all there is, you respond to those who bring death on other people by bringing death. Only. If there’s no system… if it’s just vigilante stuff… who decides who is worthy of death? The market? Ability? Castle goes head to head with an old army buddy who is his equal in everything; while being willing to cross more lines.

The Punisher embraces this; the black, the skull logo, the warpaint, this is his embodiment of his cause — death. Justice in a world where nothing resides beyond that door. Painful death (seriously… it’s painful to watch). He’s driven by knowing that death is all there is… that’s his thing.

Micro: You’d rather be dead than feeling? Frank Castle. The Punisher. On a suicide mission, because what, he doesn’t like it when, uh, his feelings get hurt?

That skull. That’s a memento mori. It’s Latin for ‘remember, you will die.’ In Rome, victorious generals would return from war and so they didn’t get blinded by glory, they’d have a slave who would just say “Remember, you’re only human, you’re going to die.”

Frank: Well. That sounds good to me. 

Micro: Well, it’s meant as an admonition to value your life, to live it well. 

Later, when Madani challenges Micro’s faith in Castle because Castle was complicit in the system he’s seeking to overthrow before he realised and started his crusade, Micro says “Frank is resigned to die because he’s not sure he deserves to live. That’s a shame.” This is Frank becoming that which he seeks to overthrow; what’s good for his victims is good for him.

Remember you are only human. You’re going to die.

But what if this isn’t it. What if Daredevil is right, and The Punisher is wrong? What if not only are people, made in God’s image, are in some way capable of redemption (though because I’m not Catholic I think this redemption comes supernaturally from God, it’s not something we can work towards, or that we’re even capable of)? What if there is something beyond death that should shape how we live? What if there’s a judge who judges not just us, but our enemies. Who promises real justice — only, justice that includes justice for the evil in our hearts too?

And what if that judge had a different game plan to handle the same insights The Punisher raises — the idea that to deal with the problem — to ‘deal with these assholes’ — you have to become one of them?

What if you do have to step inside the vicious cycle; but somehow; somehow; you have to break it?

And break it in a way that convicts the offender (while offering redemption), but also comforts the afflicted with justice and hope. If you want mercy and hope in the mix you’d have to break it in a way that reaches beyond the grave to bring both justice and life… because if this life is all there is, how could the death of some ‘innocents’ like Castle’s family ever be paid for by the death of the guilty, especially if they then experience mercy (or if there’s the small mercy of the death of the body being all there is)?

Frank Castle is a man seeking atonement. But he seeks atonement in a purely immanent frame; there’s no horizon beyond the endorsement of the system he rejects that will vindicate him. And one day, when he fails, he’ll die (he certainly cops enough bumps, stab wounds, and bruises to have you questioning his mortality).

Jesus is a man who brought atonement. A man who did enter the vicious cycle of this world in order to break it; one who ‘became sin, who knew no sin, so we might become his righteousness’. A man who on the cross, in an act of substitution, became all the assholes he saved; and experienced justice for them; for us; on our behalf (as an interesting aside, Marvel’s Netflix partnership has so far presented Daredevil as the good samaritan (and New York as the victim), and as the suffering servant, and Luke Cage as a ‘liberation’ style messiah figure, some substitutionary atonement would be great (though the end of the Defenders leaves that possibility open).

Jesus is a man who stepped into the blood, grit, and violence of this world but did not take up his sword to seek vengeance, but a cross to bring both justice and mercy. A man who wasn’t a vigilante, but who was failed by a corrupt, deadly, self-interested state — the Roman empire — whose followers eventually overthrew that system simply by refusing to take part in that particular vicious cycle (at least at first, Christians would later go on their own crusades).

Frank Castle was a man ‘resigned to die because he’s not sure he deserves to live,’ Jesus was a man who was resigned to die though he deserved to live… A true innocent. Blameless.

But a willing victim of injustice; and the grand threat embodied in that Roman memento mori: Remember you are only human. You’re going to die.

Jesus did this — faced death — bloody, gritty, violent, death — because he didn’t operate in Castle’s immanent frame. He did this because he believed death is not all there is. His approach to life, and justice, and his hope, is meant to shape those who live in the world following him. The writer to the Hebrews says:

“And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.” — Hebrews 12:1-3

There’s some interesting stuff in the following versions about how we might discipline or punish ourselves when we take sin seriously, not because we have to pay its price, but because Jesus has. Our sense of how to live in this world comes from what we believe about the judge; the ‘punisher’, and what we believe about our future. Hebrews suggests the short term pain is a result of the discipline of a father who loves us — a father who has lost his son to violent — but that we can believe this pain is good because “it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it.” — its end point is quite different to those being trained by the vicious cycle of vengeance, violence, and blood.

Remember you are only human. You’re going to die.

Is it possible these words aren’t just a reminder to live good lives rather than a fatalistic death sentence that leaves us throwing our lives away trying to pursue revenge for wrongs we’ve experienced? Is there more to life, more to justice, than the latin maxim? Is there more to reality than death? Is there a life-giver (God), not just a life-taker (death)?

Ultimately those are going to be the question that shapes our approach to justice in this world; whether we’re on Team Punisher or Team Jesus. Is there more to life than death? Is justice something we’ve got to extract in pounds and pounds of flesh now, or can we trust that God has to exact justice not just for crimes committed against us, but for humanity’s execution and rejection of Jesus — whose blood debt we all owe as participants in a corrupt system. If we believe God will be judge, jury, and executioner it means we don’t need to pull the trigger. It means we don’t need to get our hands dirty, because he did. It means we have hope that death has been defeated, that it has lost its sting, but also that there is a just judge who will give us the justice we crave, and mercy we require, and this means we can live different lives to the cycle we see play out so gruesomely in The Punisher.

So Paul can say, in Romans, in a ‘cycle-breaker’…

Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everyone. If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone. Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” says the Lord.

On the contrary:

“If your enemy is hungry, feed him;
    if he is thirsty, give him something to drink.
In doing this, you will heap burning coals on his head.”

Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good. — Romans 12:17-21

Don’t become like them.

Don’t be an asshole who just begets the vicious cycle of a broken system. Join a new one. See the world differently. Death differently.

This makes for a truly beautiful and compelling way of life; I’m just not sure this makes for great (though ugly and confronting) television.

November 20, 2017

Anonymous v Westboro: Unappointed arbiters, justice, and the dangers of repaying evil with evil

In the past, Anonymous, the anonymous group of hacktivists, were reportedly set to lock horns with Westboro Baptist – the hatemongering group who protest at the funerals of dead soldiers and the victims of tragedy, shout slogans outside concerts around the US, and target other churches. They also recently appeared on Russell Brand’s TV talk show.

The problem with being an anonymous group is that you’re pretty easy to imitate, and the group initially denied targeting Westboro – but claimed they were watching, and then hacked their website for the lols.

Now. Anonymous is getting serious.

After Westboro announced they were going to picket the funerals of the victims of the Newtown school shooting (note – not a particularly Christian response to tragedy), Anonymous acted. Circulating contact details for the members of the church around the internet, and posting this ominous video on the Westboro website.

Just be warned – there’s a pretty shocking high pitched noise at the end of the speaking, that might make you jump.

Anonymous – Message To The Westboro Baptist Church from @kyanonymous on Vimeo.

Here’s a snippet of the script – which you can find in full on the Vimeo page.

“Your pseudo-faith is abhorrent, and your leaders, repugnant. Your impact and cause is hazardous to the lives of millions and you fail to see the wrong in promoting the deaths of innocent people. You are self-appointed servants of God who rewrite the words of His sacred scripture to adhere to your prejudice. Your hatred supersedes your faith, and you use faith to promote your hatred.

Since your one-dimensional thought protocol will conform not to any modern logic, we will not debate, argue, or attempt to reason with you. Instead, we have unanimously deemed your organization to be harmful to the population of The United States of America, and have therefore decided to execute an agenda of action which will progressively dismantle your institution of deceitful pretext and extreme bias, and cease when your zealotry runs dry. We recognize you as serious opponents, and do not expect our campaign to terminate in a short period of time. Attrition is our weapon, and we will waste no time, money, effort, and enjoyment, in tearing your resolve into pieces, as with exposing the incongruity of your distorted faith.”

Anonymous may or may not have orchestrated this petition to have Westboro’s tax exempt status withdrawn by declaring them a hate group (perhaps a more useful petition than the bid to build a death star). That petition has passed the threshold required for a response from the White House.

Part of me really wants Anonymous to succeed. I love the idea of hacktivism, especially when it’s directed at such an insidious group who do real harm to people, and to the gospel of Jesus.

It’d be nice to have the power to do something when tragedy strikes. When there’s someone who is clearly in the wrong – be they directly involved, or a parasitic third party.

But another part of me worries about a society where censorship is dictated either by the consensus of the majority, or the activism of a powerful, and hidden, minority.

It presents another dilemma – given that Anonymous is anonymous – and completely not accountable to anybody but themselves – unlike duly elected representatives of the state – this classic dilemma, is expressed in this manner in Latin:

Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

Or “who watches the watchmen?”

Who watches those who appoint themselves as gatekeepers for society? The moral arbiters? Especially if they’re vindictive, and have something that approaches unlimited power to wreak carnage.

The society anonymous seeks to prevent, at least if it’s really channeling V for Vendetta – which the Guy Fawkes mask they own as their own would suggest, is a totalitarian society driven by tyranny, where opposing views are silenced.

There’s something disturbing and ironic about Anonymous appointing themselves as the totalitarian regime, potentially enabling lynch mobs through the publication of contact details of a widely hated group.

There’s a tension here. Words have consequences, and speech is never really free. There’s a problem when “free speech” means you can say anything to harm anybody without the fear of consequences. But there’s an obvious problem, too, with preventing people from speaking because you disagree with what they’re saying.

I hate what Westboro do. I hate that they stand outside funerals and compound the grief of the grieving. I hate that they claim to do it in the name of Jesus. But I’m not called to hate the individuals who make up Westboro. I’m called to love them. I’m not called to silence them. I’m called to speak truth to them. With love.

There should be consequences for Westboro’s hate speech. And they shouldn’t be allowed to say what they want to say wherever they want to say it (namely, outside funerals). But if they want to preach their abominable gospel from their abominable pulpit, and from their website – then they should be free to do it. We get into dangerous territory if people can silence views they disagree with, rather than simply having equal opportunity to speak against them, and let the market decide.

But the Anonymous campaign goes further than that – it aims to silence the group.

They say:

We will not allow you to corrupt the minds of America with your seeds of hatred. We will not allow you to inspire aggression to the social factions which you deem inferior. We will render you obsolete. We will destroy you. We are coming.

Everyone is equal.

They mean everyone is equal – except Westboro. It’s all very animal farm – and they’re the pigs. Again, a subversion of anti-totalitarian literature…

There’s a little bit of recent form for this – Anonymous also targeted the advertisers who were prepared to continue advertising with 2Day FM after the recent tragic outcome of a prank call. Blaming the network for the unfortunate, and unforeseeable, outcome of the broadcast. YouTube has canned the video – but you can still see it at The Australian (you may need to google it to get behind the paywall).

“We have studied the facts and found you guilty of murder. You have placed yourself in an untenable position. You have placed your advertisers at risk – their databases, their websites, their online advertising.

We are Anonymous and hereby demand you terminate the contracts of Mel Greig and Michael Christian. We will not listen to any more excuses. We will not let you escape your responsibility. You have a funeral to pay for. We are Anonymous. We are legion. We are amongst you. Expect us. This is not a prank call; this is no laughing matter. This is your one and only chance to make amends. You have one week to do so.”

They’re Judge. Jury. Executioner. Pretty totalitarian – the separation of powers is one of the checks and balances modern democracies use to prevent something of the situation we’ve seen in the past.

Westboro’s idiocy, their evil, their hate – it doesn’t dehumanise them. It just makes them stupid, evil, hatemongers.

My inner idealist would just like to see people continue to be able to sustain the distinction between Westboro and the rest of the people in the world who call themselves Christians, without the need to even talk about them when they do stupid stuff. But their hateful message is powerful because people are always on the look out for an other to hate, and a cause to belong to. We have skinheads. Gangs. Anonymous web terrorists.

I can’t help but think that a much better – particularly if you’re a Christian – response to Westboro (and to Anonymous) is to respond with unexpected love, bizarrely – this is just what Russell Brand did. And what Mars Hill did when Westboro came knocking at their church doors.

Doing this properly requires two things of us.

First, we’ve got to believe that there’s a just God waiting at the end of time to punish wrong doings, and judge justly. The sins of Westboro will not go unpunished. No wrongdoing will.

And this takes the need for us to act as judge, jury, and executioner out of our hands. Leaving us to love. Romans 12 says it best:

17 Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everyone. 18 If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone. 19 Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” says the Lord. 20 On the contrary:

“If your enemy is hungry, feed him;
if he is thirsty, give him something to drink.
In doing this, you will heap burning coals on his head.”

21 Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.

That’s the first bit – and already it takes some of the wind out of the sails of the Anonymous campaign (and it’s something Westboro should be taking note of too – but they’re not particularly adept at reading the Bible).

The second factor, perhaps more important. Is to remember that not only are we Anonymous – wanting to run things our way. To decide right and wrong for ourselves, and judge others by our standards. We are Westboro. We are the radio DJs whose poor judgment spiralled out of control. We are sinners. We are subject – by right – of judgment, by a perfect juror, and the execution that comes as a consequence.

Only, if you’re a Christian, Jesus took that judgment for you. Who are you to judge, if this is the case. The (potentially apocryphal) story of the woman at the well is a story worth heeding at this point, from John 8.

3 The teachers of the law and the Pharisees brought in a woman caught in adultery. They made her stand before the group 4 and said to Jesus, “Teacher, this woman was caught in the act of adultery. 5 In the Law Moses commanded us to stone such women. Now what do you say?” 6 They were using this question as a trap, in order to have a basis for accusing him.

But Jesus bent down and started to write on the ground with his finger. 7 When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, “Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” 8 Again he stooped down and wrote on the ground.

9 At this, those who heard began to go away one at a time, the older ones first, until only Jesus was left, with the woman still standing there. 10 Jesus straightened up and asked her, “Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?”

11 “No one, sir,” she said.

“Then neither do I condemn you,” Jesus declared. “Go now and leave your life of sin.”

At this point Anonymous finds themselves in the dangerous position of being the Pharisees – those opposed to Jesus – who miss the spirit of the law, and the true nature of humanity – rather than the righteous. They’re not claiming to be Christians – but they are claiming to be the righteous judges who serve a higher calling than mere mortals.

But what do I claim? What can I claim?

I am Fred Phelps. I am a hater. I am a sinner. My heart is a factory of pride, and my pride always comes at the expense of others. I need Jesus to step in for me. How can I do anything but offer love and grace to other sinners?

That’s the most worrying thing about Anonymous taking control – not only did we not choose them as the moral police, not only do they lack any of the accountability required stand in judgment over other sinners, they seem unprepared to treat those they oppose as humans. With love.

December 18, 2012

Dead birds and Don’t Ask Don’t Tell

People get in real trouble if they try to link world events to specific acts by members of specific governments. We saw that with Danny Naliah yesterday. Exhibit B is YouTube Prophetess (or televangelist) Cindy Jacobs – who suggests a bunch of birds are dying because of a decision to repeal the Don’t Ask Don’t Tell policy regarding homosexuals in the US Army.

If we could track God’s direct intervention in judgment like these guys suggest:
a) I’d be a very rich man.
b) He’d be using a better logical connection than “the Governor’s name is B.B and this is happening in a place called B.B.”
c) He’d be doing much nastier things to much nastier places. Queensland is Australia’s Bible belt. We’re the birthplace of Ken Ham. Why isn’t Kings Cross flooding?

H/T Scotteriology.

January 12, 2011

Crap Sound 2

Wow. So I stirred up a hornets nest of angry female commenters (and one male), eager to defend U2’s honour.

And I regret nothing.

I thought about it, and for a while I decided that I was being harsh, that it’s wrong to judge people on the basis of their musical taste. But then I decided that’s exactly what I do. I am unapologetically prejudiced when it comes to Music. That’s why I own a T-Shirt that says “I hate the bands you like” and another that says “you have bad taste in music”… In fact. If you like U2 you should go to this site. Consider it an online support group.

I measure people – and how much I have in common with them – by what’s on their CD shelf, iPod, DVD rack or book shelf. And why shouldn’t I. You no doubt judge me on things equally superficial.

Will I not love you on that basis? No. Robyn had some Christian music CDs when we started dating – and some equally embarrassing music, and I have the Backstreet Boys as a musical skeleton in my closet. I still love her (and she me), though we disagree.

For those not reading the comments here’s some of what went down (well, what I said… other people can make their own points known in the comments – or on their own blogs)…

“Understanding that something is a subjective taste should not stop me objecting to the subjective taste of others.

I don’t like modern fashion – should I not be allowed to voice my opinion on that? Besides, I see providing all these alternative bands as a public service to my readers.

I wonder too, if the label “alternative” could just be applied to “those bands not trying to be U2″.”

Here are the things I’ve actually said about U2 (in the comments on other posts):

  • “If you listen to U2 your musical taste is boring and your (clef) palate undefined.”
  • “This article pretty much sums up why I don’t like U2 ”
  • “They’re also not very good. Musically or lyrically. In my opinion. They are champions of inoffensive blandness.”
  • “I’m happy for you to like U2. I’m sure you have reasons. I don’t like U2.”
  • “It’s where I write my opinion. On things. Like U2. And how they should retire. They used to be cool. Now they’re old men. ”
  • “I wonder too, if the label “alternative” could just be applied to “those bands not trying to be U2″.”
  • “Why listen to one band that tries to appeal to every aspect of musicallity and becomes middle of the road when you can embrace diversity which lets you appreciate the whole road, bit by bit?”
  • “There’s six bands in a list of five bands that I find more sonically pleasurable than U2″
  • “Bono’s public Christianity makes him a bit of a sacred cow. But I don’t like to criticise things without offering solutions here are 5 bands that are better than U2. In my opinion”

June 5, 2009