The book Mike Kelly’s working on, American Lazarus and His Savior, explores American Evangelicalism’s vision of Jesus by reexamining what he said and did (and didn’t do) in the Gospels. Below is an excerpt from the chapter, “Solutions.”
Why are you so afraid? Have you still no faith?
This conversation took place in a pastor’s office in the early 2000s. It was their third or fourth meeting after a husband’s adultery.
“What are you going to do?”
After a long pause she answered, “I’m going to forgive him like I’ve been forgiven and try to rebuild our marriage.”
“This is a big decision. Are you sure you want to do what the Bible says?”
“What? Aren’t I supposed to? Jesus said we should forgive.” Her tone shifted from confused to irritated. “I am angry and hurt, but I still love him and want to follow my Savior.”
“I know you love him, and I know you love Jesus. Just think carefully about what you expect from them both, because Jesus didn’t keep you safe in this situation.”
The Lazarus in John 11 and his sisters knew Jesus could have kept him safe, but it’s apparent that they didn’t expect him to. In the end, Lazarus was safe, but American Lazarus’s family needs to learn that Jesus’ view of safety is unorthodox, to say the least. Once, he slept while his disciples cried out in terror. Then, he woke up and showed them what they should really fear.
There has never been a better inner circle to be part of than the Twelve. They walked side by side with Jesus through Galilee, stood next to him when he cast out demons, sat at his feet while he taught the multitudes, and reclined by campfires singing psalms and arguing about the best way to cook fish. That last one is a guess, but not a wild guess. They were ordinary men, even Jesus in his extraordinary way. Whatever they did in the lost history of their private fellowship, the disciples must have grown increasingly confident that things would go well for them. Everything about their situation implied security.
In addition to intimate proximity, they had the Teacher’s Edition Bible. The verses just before the opening words above contain some of Christ’s most famous teaching. Mark explains, “He did not speak to (the crowds) without a parable, but privately to his own disciples, he explained everything.” After sending the people away, Jesus pulled his own aside and told them what he really meant. Proximity has its privileges.
They also had direct guidance every day they were with him. In this case it was very specific, indeed. “When evening had come, he said to them, “Let us go across to the other side.” They got right into the boat and shoved off, of course. What else would they do? The better question is What did they expect? Probably not drowning. The psychology of discipleship doesn’t work that way. The Twelve had the three keys to security: proximity to power, special knowledge, and direct guidance. They won the “this is going to be great” trifecta and expected their future to go well. At the very least, they were good to cross the Sea of Galilee. Those expectations are not made explicit in the text, but they are as old as Israel’s disappointment in Moses three days out of Egypt and as common as sycophants in a royal court. Our age, however, has taken them to new levels.
Herman Mehlville’s Moby Dick was published in 1851 when modern expectations were gaining momentum. More than a century earlier, Newton cracked creation’s code and, without intending to, started a quest to learn so much about nature that we could run it just fine without divine help. Darwin gave us On the Origin of Species in 1859 with the next big workaround we needed to move on from the Divine, at least as traditionally envisioned. At the same time, the industrial revolution had a head of steam and was delivering once unimaginable efficiencies; for consumers, at least. Workers were having a tough go of things. Happily, the digital age multiplied our powers with massive data sets and unfathomable computational speed. It just keeps getting better. We made “science” a verb and now we science away the problems our poor ancestors were forced to pray about. Despite a few very bad wars and other bummers, it works amazingly well. We enjoy a standard of living ancient kings would envy, and like all royalty, our expectations have become demands.
Thankfully, Mehlville left us a story about something that never changes. No matter how advanced the ship of church or state is, its crew and cargo are never more secure than the humanity at the helm. Before signing on to the voyage, Ishmael asks Peleg about Ahab, more specifically about the name he shared with one of Israel’s most disastrous kings. Peleg was Captain Ahab’s First Mate when he lost his leg to Moby Dick. After retiring from the sea, he owned ships, including the ill-fated Pequod. Here’s Peleg’s estimation of Captain Ahab:
I know, too, that ever since he lost his leg last voyage by that accursed whale, he’s been a kind of moody-desperate moody, and savage sometimes; but that will all pass off. And once for all, let me tell thee and assure thee, young man, it’s better to sail with a moody good captain than a laughing bad one. So good-bye to thee-and wrong not Captain Ahab, because he happens to have a wicked name.
As it turned out, Peleg underestimated Ahab’s issues more than a little, but he got the paradigm right. The ship is only as sound as its captain, moody or not. For now, we’ll leave aside the question of whether or not Jesus was moody, except to say that he surely had moods and not all of them were good. We do know this, however; he did not always use his powers to keep his people from suffering set-backs, or worse. Whatever glory came afterward, Mary, Martha, and Lazarus suffered from his refusal to change course when storms were bearing down. He’s done that countless times in the lives of his people since then, just as he did that day in Galilee when “a great windstorm arose, and the waves were breaking into the boat, so that the boat was already filling.”
Anticipating the Weather Channel’s favorite headline, Mark calls this a “mega storm.” The Greek word “mega” is translated “great” here and becomes an important link to the story’s full lesson later. For now, let’s remember that there’s more going on here than meteorology. After the Noahic Flood storms became embedded in the Bible’s lexicon of terrifying metaphors for God’s judgment. But water is also a source of life in Scripture (Isaiah 55.1, Jeremiah 2.13, John 4.10). That’s the rub- what we need for life can also bring death. It’s a vivid image for the inherent tensions of a fallen world created by a good God. There is death by water, life by water, judgment by water, and redemption through water.
Jesus is a person, not a metaphor, but everything said of water is true of him, too. It appears that his name has the opposite effect of Ahab’s. “Jesus” is a spiritual synonym for “safe.” We’re so sure he’ll sail us through smooth waters we don’t bother to ask where the life vests are. Despite the monochrome cloak we hide him in, Christ is the most ambivalent figure in Scripture, indeed in history. That is not to say he is inconsistent or uncaring. He is just not simple. His person contains all that is divine and human. Law and grace, transcendence and immanence, the peace of God and the fear of God all cohere in him. Yet, American Lazarus’s dogma of safety is simple: he and his family expect God’s help when they need it and are dismayed when He doesn’t step up. Indeed, some quit God altogether. That dismay sounds like “How long, O Lord?” as we read in the Psalms, but in our age it’s more like “How dare you, O Lord?” Once God’s job is to keep us safe, we begin to make some very unrealistic assumptions about what life with Jesus will be like.
