Signposts

I’ve decided to re-read the New Testament.

For those who haven’t heard the term, it simply refers to the re-imagination of Jewish salvation history through the life, death and resurrection of Jesus the Christ.

This re-visioning takes place over several written texts: Four written accounts of Jesus’ life and death attributed to his disciples, a bunch of letters written by St. Paul to some of the earliest Christian communities, a few other letters, and a wildly fantastic series of visions called Revelation.

I got the re-reading idea from my friend and fellow reporter Joe Johnson, whose blog – “sex, lies and videotape” – provides a nice counterpoint to the lugubrious asseverations of Signposts.

Joe read the NT several years ago, and the result was that he vowed never to go to church again.

Yet for him, I think, Jesus remains an attractive and sympathetic figure.

I grew curious. What is it about this Jesus that is so compelling?

The problem for cradle Christians like me is that the story of Jesus has been so repeated, so mythologized, so romanticized, that it is like white noise nobody notices anymore.

An object in the house that is so assumed, so familiar, that it becomes virtually invisible. Worn out from sheer use.

What would it be like to encounter Jesus afresh, to break through the centuries of accumulated meaning that have turned the extraordinary into the mundane, kind of like chipping the black lacquer off the Maltese Falcon to reveal the golden, jewel-encrusted bird beneath?

So here we go.

Progress so far: Matthew Chap. 24.

Some early, unscientific reactions to the text:

Jesus makes you uncomfortable. One minute, he is incredibly reassuring “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy burdened, and I will give you rest.”

The next, “I did not come to bring peace but a sword.”

Forget the nonsense about Jesus being a great moral teacher, a kind of genial swami who preaches a Beatles style message of love, brotherhood and peace.

That comes from people who have never really grappled with the text.

This Jesus, in the words of Soren Kierkegaard, gives the possibility of offense.

“Blessed is he who is not offended at me,” Christ says to John the Baptist, when John starts to doubt that he is the Christ.

Where does this possibility of being offended come from?

Heres a stab at it.

Jesus insisted that the kingdom of God – with all the specific promises made by God to the Jewish people that he would end suffering and evil in the world – were being fulfilled in him.

And yet, such a lowly man! People said, “This fellow is a carpenter from Nazareth. He is the son of Joseph – not exactly a standout character.”

And yet the extraordinary things he was saying and doing …

The way Kierkegaard describes it, there are two essential ways to be offended by Jesus.

One is to be offended in relation to his lowliness. How could a simple carpenter’s son be making these claims, healing people, saying that the kingdom of God was being fulfilled in his own person?

The religious authorities of the day, I think, tended to think this way. This was beneath God. The messiah should come in glory and triumph, eliminate the hated Roman oppressors and establish Israel and the temple system forever.

The other possibility is to be offended by Jesus’ claims about himself. People who want to see Jesus as another great moral teacher like the Buddha fall into this category.

Such folks don’t want to hear anything about God actually doing things in history, intervening in their comfortable lives. A few nice teachings, apply them as you choose, and get on with your life.

There are hordes who fit into this category.

Perhaps we all fit into one of these niches at one time or another, shifting back and forth as our mood oscillates between transcendance and immanence.

“Blessed is he who is not offended at me,” Jesus said.

If you take away the possibility of offense, Kierkegaard said, then you will never come to faith in Christ.

Give me your thoughts on this topic.

More unscientific observations to come.