Cicero, the famous orator, once wrote that no decent Roman citizen should ever say the word ‘crucifixion.’ He considered the topic taboo, too offensive to be on the lips of a proper Roman. I suppose there were many reasons for this prohibition, but it really comes down to two: First, crucifixion was a horrible process, designed to maximise the pain and humiliation of the victim so that any other potential criminals would be deterred from causing trouble. Second, crucifixion was typically reserved for enemies of Rome – rebels, rioters, and political enemies of the empire… which is why Jesus himself suffered this fate.

A single line from Jesus’ prayer right before he was arrested says it all:“Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me.” These words resonate with me. They are filled with agony on the border of despair, as Jesus stares down the barrel of immense suffering. And so we also pray, “God please take this away… I can’t take it anymore. I simply can’t move forward.”

I have been sick since October, first with pneumonia that refused to go away, and then, as a twisted denouement, kidney stones requiring multiple surgeries (and resulting in so many complications that I stopped keeping track). In the midst of the excruciating pain, I asked, begged, and pleaded that God would take this cup of suffering away from me as my ability to cope diminished.

But going back to Jesus, right before he was arrested, did you noticed that God’s answer to Jesus’ request is an obvious “No”? Jesus pleaded with God that his suffering would stop (or never start)… and God told him no. I find that funny, because God frequently gives me that same answer. Jesus and I have something in common.

God’s answer to pain, throughout the Biblical narrative, is never ‘not pain’. He never simply takes it away. In that sense, God is decidedly not like the painkillers that I had clung to over the last couple of months to keep me from going insane with agony. He is not percocet, prescribed to numb us from our brains down to our feet, and it always makes me nervous when God is used simply to cope with pain.

Karl Marx famously called religion the “opiate of the masses,” though I suppose I could update that translation and say that religion is the oxycodone of the masses. But the hope we read about in the New Testament is decidedly not pain management.

Instead, the hope of the Bible, of Jesus, is the transformation and redemption of pain by the promise of his presence. God is present in our suffering. He does not feel threatened by it, and he is not afraid of it. He is patient as we suffer and understanding while we mourn. He redeems. Think about it: when Jesus was crucified, it was a dark moment in human history. And through it, God explosively brought redemption and reconciliation into the world a few days later.

No, it’s not because he lost. Losing is part of playing, he had a great season, blah blah blah. I don’t really follow football – nothing against it, just doesn’t grab my attention.

I am concerned for him. He has, whether he meant to or not, become a very public image for American Christianity. Pop-Christianity has elevated him to “Christian Celebrity” status, which means that Sunday schools across the country now have a new hero to point the children to, pastors have another sermon illustration, and aspiring Christian athletes have another role-model.

And this is a problem.

Americans love celebrity. I imagine an embarrassingly large percentage of our time, attention, and money go to various elements of celebrity culture like a bunch of cats hitting the neighborhood catnip bong – aggressively and ferociously. American Christianity is no different, and it is really one of our more unique features. It is also extremely unhealthy.

Tebow has, unwittingly, been placed in an impossible situation. While Christians love to create faithful celebrities after whom we may follow, it also places an incredible amount of pressure on that poor soul. And we tend not to be very forgiving when that person messes up. Not “if,” but “when.” Remember how Mel Gibson was our hero when he Made Passion? One DUI and a few racial slurs later…

All that to say, it’s great to have people that inspire us. Please remember that Tebow is human, and when he says something stupid, has a moral lapse, or simply has a bad day and tells the cashier at the store what he thinks of her mis-priced beans in a very unambiguous way, lighten up. All our heroes are human.

In any case, there was one quote by the author of the book, Thomas Mates, that particularly made my skin crawl:

The principle thing is the idea of being politically active, which Jesus refused to do and Paul didn’t do. All of the key figures in the New Testament are renowned for going to their deaths without putting up a fight. Jesus fought to clean up the church, not city hall. No one is told in the New Testament to beat or join the Romans.

No, no, and a very loud, frustrated NO. Jesus (not to mention Paul) was highly active politically, but we will fail to see how if we assume that politics is always like what we experience in modern, western America. Taking a look at the life of Jesus through first-century eyes, we see a doubly radical political figure whose death was inevitable.

Consider this question: Would Rome (and its delegated officials) be interested in killing a wandering “spiritual leader” who taught about” spiritual realities” and wanted his followers to do “spiritual things?” Of course not. Itinerant spiritual wanderers are about as threatening as a hamster who has no teeth. At worst, he would be mildly amusing.

But Jesus was executed as a threat to the empire, and Rome reserved a special method of death for these types – crucifixion. So the question is, why? What was so political about his teaching?

Take, for example, Jesus’ famous statement (from Matthew 22), “Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God’s the things that are God’s.” As separation-of-church-and-state Americans, the meaning seems clear: The political realm is separate from the religious realm. However, we must understand the historical context to really feel the sting of Jesus’ rebuttal.

Jesus was asked whether it was lawful to pay the tax to Caesar. This was a very sore point for the Jews, God’s chosen people, as they were in subjugation to Rome and were forced to pay tribute. During Jesus’ lifetime (6 CE) there was a revolt against Rome, lead by Judas of Galilee, specifically in opposition to a tax census. For you New Testament geeks, this is mentioned by Rabbi Gamaliel in Acts 5. The Romans, doing what they do best, killed a lot of people as they put down this rebellion, which certainly would have been in the collective memory of the people witnessing the life of Jesus.

If Jesus says no, it was not ok for them to pay the tax to Caesar, then they would have a clear admission by Jesus that he was an advocate of Judas of Galilee – which they could use to get him killed by the Romans. If Jesus said yes, however, then he would have committed a certain kind of blasphemy. On the coin in question, written around the face of Caesar Tiberius, would likely have been written: Caesar Tiberius, son of the Divine Augustus. That would imply that Caesar was the son of a god and therefore divine – quite the crime within monotheistic Judaism. Also written on the coin was the statement that he was the “High Priest,” which in Roman civil religion, he was.

So Jesus can’t say yes, as that would be agreeing that Caesar was divine and violate the Jewish understanding of who God is, but saying no will get him arrested immediately. So what does he say? “Give me a coin.” Oddly enough, one of his interlocutors has one, and Jesus makes him identify the face on the coin. It was Caesar’s, along with all the titles I mentioned above. So what does Jesus mean when he tells them to give to Caesar what is his, and to God what belongs to him?

Think about it. Caesar is claiming to rule the world, and he holds the title of “divine son of a god.” He claims total dominion. So does God. Jesus’ response forces his questioners to face the reality that these two “realms” aren’t mutually exclusive, and in fact, they are diametrically opposed. This is a very dangerous political statement to make, and one that will likely get you killed if you say it loud enough.

Which leads us to our own times: Who is really in charge around here?

I couldn’t help but feel a sense of empathy for Hitchens’ fans. For many, he was a source of inspiration, someone who helped them navigate the murky and difficult waters of life with eloquence, reason, and that wonderful British wit I always find so fun. That’s not to say I agreed with him on much, and I am not pretending to. Regardless, he was an extraordinary thinker and writer, and he will be missed by millions.

This brings me to Paul, Jesus, the New Testament, and twitter. Social media has become (or always was?) a cesspool for virulent, violent rhetoric focused against those who are perceived as enemies. And because it is never directly to one’s face that these things are said, people can say anything they want without immediate consequence. This is dangerous, as a lack of direct accountability means that our words, in all their power, can become ruthlessly damaging as we also experience a decrease in empathy. In other words, we experience less of what makes us human.

I found myself thinking about Paul and Jesus, in what they wrote and taught (respectively). They encountered plenty of opposition, and both could be very ‘direct’ when confronting their interlocutors. But here’s the catch: These debates were internal. Paul was dealing with Christian Jews, and Jesus was dealing with fellow Palestinian Jews. Yes, Paul lands some zingers, but he was chastising people that, according to him, knew better. Jesus acted as a prophet, in this regard, seeking to alter the people’s expectations of the Kingdom of God. Both were the most direct when rebuking their own.

One striking counter-example is particularly illuminating. Paul finds himself standing in front of the Areopagus in Athens, giving an account of his “foreign divinities” to pagan (in the technical sense) leaders. His tone and manner were very, very different. He was eloquent and relevant, quoting the Greek writers Epimenides of Crete and Aratus. His graciousness in Athens stands in striking contrast to his letter to the Galatian Christians, where he sounds much angrier and meaner.

Why is that significant? The Athenians weren’t followers of Jesus, nor were they Jewish. He had no reason to be corrective or condescending, and instead explained the way he saw the world while also respecting the culture. It seems that we Christians would do well to take this to heart. Our interactions with those outside of our faith will be far more helpful when they are gracious and compassionate. And when dealing with each other, love. Be direct, but love. And maybe don’t take things quite so personally. And call your mother every once in a while.

Autumn asked: Who is Thecla in the early church? Was she a real person? Did she really travel with Paul? What about other women in the early church?

Then she asked: How did the books of the Bible get into the cannon? What were the criteria? Oddly enough, these questions are related, and we will see fairly quickly how they intertwine.

Thecla, according to legend and myth, was a woman who, upon hearing a sermon preached by Paul (the great Apostle in the first century CE) about the virtues of chastity, became enthralled by his Gospel message to the point of obsession. This obsession led to the breakup of her engagement and irritated her mother, and she sought Paul himself – that she could learn under him and join him in his travels. Through a series of events that become increasingly strange (to the point that her mother tried to get her killed because she was preaching Paul’s Gospel – there are also rainstorms, a fire, a cave, hookers, and wild animals), she eventually gains Paul’s blessing to be a traveling preacher, much like himself.

You might be asking, at this point, where in the Bible all of this takes place: it doesn’t. In the second century, there was a book called the Acts of Paul which was intended to be similar to the Acts of the Apostles (or Acts, for short). In fact, there were lots of books supposedly about (and by) the Apostles describing them do all kinds of crazy things. We read about Thecla in the “Acts of Thecla,” which appears to have been part of the Acts of Paul.

It turns out that the Acts of Paul was fiction, written by an Asian bishop who had a man-crush on him (I’m not making this up – Tertullian wrote about this). The Acts of Paul, along with the Acts of Thecla and a number of other works that were circulating around various churches, were deemed “not Scripture.” Church leaders decided that the Acts of Paul had been poorly copied (ie, lots of errors made in the copying process), was irreconcilable with the Acts of the Apostles which was well known to be accurate, and was eventually shown to have been made up. Literally. The bishop in question lost his job over this.

This is where the whole “Bible and canon” thing comes into play. Various controversies forced church leaders to actually decide what writings they were going to accept as Scripture, and the Acts of Paul and Thecla were no exception. Too many works were being read and circulated that contained very strange things (far stranger than in the Bible, believe me), whose copies were poorly maintained or overly edited by the scribes doing the copying, or simply went against those works that had been circulating for a long time: like the Gospels, Acts, Romans, etc.

It was not a power play by the church, as some suggest, but rather a more organic process where the most respected works were used as a measure for the others. There were criteria: They had to have been written by an Apostle, had to have been copied accurately, etc. But it was not a way to solidify power, as the DaVinci Code seemed to think.

So where does this leave Thecla? She might have been a real person, but that is about all we can guess. I think it would be very unlikely that she travelled around with Paul and became a great preacher. That does not mean, oddly enough, that there were no women who played important roles in the early church – some of them even being leaders. This takes us to the next question that Autumn asked.

Consider the Gospel accounts of Jesus’ death and Resurrection. For the most part, especially after Jesus dies, his disciples (all male) hide, and John mentions that this was done out of fear. As it turns out, they were smart in being afraid. Their leader had just been executed because those in power decided that he was a threat, and as Jesus’ followers, they would be considered suspect. Peter and John run to the burial spot, but for the most part, the important men who were clearly part of Jesus’ inner circle are out of the picture. The big question here is: why?

In times of conflict (for the most part), women were generally safe to walk about in public. The men involved, and especially those identified as leaders, were not. They could be killed if they were found because they were specifically part of the conflict. Women were never leaders in the various insurrections, rebellions, and other bits of violence that took place in that time period. This is why we read about the disciples hiding in a locked room while the women come and go as they please.

But what happens in the book of Acts, when Saul is on his way to Damascus in chapter 9? Saul specifically goes to seek out the “men and women” who belong to this troublesome group. Within the ancient Middle Eastern context (and I suspect this would be largely true today, as well), the only way the women would be included as targets would be if they were also identified as leaders in the movement. While I don’t pretend that this is a conclusive proof of female leaders of early Christianity, it is a trend that ought not be overlooked.

Combine this with the subversive move by John, who describes women as being the first witnesses of the Resurrected Jesus – who then charges them to take the news to the disciples. In the cultural context, it would be stupid to do this. Everyone knew, and various pagan writers end up making fun of Christians for this, that if you want your story to be believable and valid, you have an upstanding man be the bearer of news. Women were considered unreliable witnesses. This, of course, gets turned upside down by John, and I think there is a very subtle message being made about gender roles here.

So much more can be said about this, and it gets complicated quickly, but Romans 16 is also wildly important for this discussion. Paul describes Phoebe as a deacon, and he mentions several other men and women that are important to the church – many in leadership roles. The big name, however, occurs in verse 7: Junia. While some have tried to argue (or just plain assumed) that Junia should be spelled Junias (which is a male name), there is simply no textual evidence. This is important because Paul makes a statement about her in relation to the Apostles.

Scholars argue over this one, but the phrase is often translated incorrectly: “They are well known to the Apostles,” as the ESV translates it, doesn’t adequately capture the meaning of the phrase. It should read (I will spare you the geeky details): “They are well known among the Apostles.” It is a phrase that is inclusive, indicating that Junia was an important leader in the early church.

On a more serious note, I feel very ambivalent about the whole thing. One the one hand, a dangerous man responsible the deaths of thousands of people all over the world is now dead. That is justice.

But a Christian is called to forgive. We believe that all humans bear God’s image (Imago Dei is the fancy-pants term), and thus we affirm the sacredness and dignity of all human life. I think this applies to issues of war, sexuality, human trafficking, business practices, ethics, and everything in between. The more I think about it, humans-as-imagesbearers is a pretty deep rabbit hole that too few venture down. That’s a different matter, I guess.

It particularly disturbs me, though, when the killing of bin Laden is labeled a victory. The taking of life is not a victory; at best it is a necessary evil – and I use that word specifically.

Jesus made a cryptic statement when he was on trial before Pilate, the governor, who was attempting to assess whether Jesus is a threat to the peace and security of Roman interests in Judea. “My kingdom is not of this world. If it were, my servants would have been fighting…” Sounds simple, right? It is, but it also goes very deep into the heart of the matter for today.

Palestine had a reputation of violence for hundreds of years before and after Jesus’ life. Jewish revolts were relatively common, often beginning in the context of the great Temple in Jerusalem. Or to put it another way, the many revolts that took place against the Romans were messianic in nature. The Messiah, it was thought, would lead the great war to kick the Romans out and reestablish an autonomous Jewish nation. These were incredibly bloody affairs, and they rarely ended well for the Jews, especially around the 1st centuries BCE and CE.

So Pilate had to decide whether Jesus was yet another violent revolutionary leader. As it turns out, he was not. Jesus recognized the futility and evil of violence and taught his disciples the same – not that they always understood. His kingdom was not of the world because it operated under a different set of values, but it was still very much for this world.

And this is where we get to the heart of the matter. If read with this background in mind, we can come to understand a deep truth regarding the nature of evil. Namely, that one of the tools of evil is violence, and fighting will never really eliminate the problem. It might contain it, but it will always resurface. This is why thoughtful and courageous non-violent resistance can be wildly successful, especially when the enemy is much more powerful: it strips them of their power.

Giving into violence might make the situation better for a time, but it will never make evil go away. Since all human life is sacred, even those responsible for incredible evil, Osama’s death is still a tragedy. Necessary, but tragic. It is better that he is dead? Probably. Is it a cause for celebration? No, never. We defeat our enemies through forgiveness, not by killing them, and we do not celebrate the death of anyone.

Here is the full beard. I look like I spend waaay too much time alone.

This is my favorite style. 19th century British gentleman, like a boss:

I call this the hard-ass handlebar (I look like an idiot):

And to top it all off, the porn ‘stache. Dear God, I look awful with a mustache.

I don’t have a final pic clean shaven, but I have to say, when I got rid of that big beard, I did feel like a new man. I think this will be a tradition for a long time as it was a great way to add a little more of the experiential to Easter. Next year, I hoping an army of men from my church will grow beards with me.

I am so ready for my beard to go away. I can no longer eat chips and salsa without needing to change my clothes and scrub my face – salsa goes everywhere. Bagels and cream cheese? That ends in disaster. Cheesy, cheesy disaster.

I started letting it grow wild for Lent as a new tradition. A few guys are doing it with me, and I hope next year we will get a small army of scruffy-faced Lent observers.

Martin Luther wrote these words: ”Original sin is in us, like the beard. We are shaved today and look clean, and have a smooth chin; tomorrow our beard has grown again, nor does it cease growing while we remain on earth.”

For me, a beard like this is a sign of repentance. It itches, gets in the way, and generally annoys me. And, I did not even ask for my wife’s input for this post – you can imagine what she might say.

However, I’ve noticed that I am anticipating Easter more this year than in the past. Yes, I want this stupid beard gone, but that has created a bit of energy in me as Holy Week approaches. When I shave for Easter, I will feel like a new man. And since I believe in the Resurrection of the dead, that’s what it is all about, right? A new man indeed…

So I got the news that I have achieved a 3-log reduction in the presence of the Leukemia mutation. Or something like that, but I was never great with Biology. Suffice it to say, this is the goal for treating my kind of Leukemia (CML), and within this threshold the disease is considered well under control. My next step is for the mutation (actually it’s the presence of a protein, or something like that) to be undetectable by the machines that do the detecting. That won’t necessarily mean the mutation is gone, but rather that it is so low that the machine can’t find it (we are on the molecular level at this point).

It’s strange, though, because I still sense that I have a ways to go in terms of dealing with the emotional side of having leukemia. For those of you that know me well, this summer has sucked horribly. I’ve been sick and injured for most of the season, and then I was forced to try a different leukemia drug because the original one was no longer effective. Not to mention that I struggled with the side effects of that original drug.

Now I feel better than ever, and I actually have more energy now than I know what to do with. But this morning, a friend of mine mentioned in passing that he had had some blood work done and the doctor said he wanted to run another, more specific test. It ended up being nothing (except that my friend needed to lose a little weight), and yet when I heard this story being told, I almost had a small heart attack at the idea of him needing more blood work. I’ve been down that road, and it didn’t go well with me.

It was like a small panic attack induced by PTSD, or something like that. I can be a little dramatic at times.

But it did tell me that I have a ways to go. I still get depressed, and who wouldn’t? After the leukemia, the multiple deaths of loved ones, the car wreck, my cat that died, the million kidney stones, and a few other things, this shouldn’t surprise me.

It all reminds me of how messy life really can be. I get impatient with movies that have nice, black and white, neatly wrapped endings. How is that anywhere near life-like? Real life has real struggles, real joy, and everything in between – and often at the same time.

I am in remission. That’s incredibly good news, but it isn’t the end of the story, nor is it the beginning of another. My good news simply is. I will carry this damned mutation all my life, and my life will likely be long.

Learning to live in that tension takes serious chutzpah. I pray that God grants me some of his…