The kin-dom of heaven has come near
New Ark United Church of Christ, Newark, DE
June 14, 2020
Before I begin, I need to engage our imaginations. More than that, I need to engage our privilege. From now on, whenever I talk about Jesus, I want us to imagine a person with brown skin, a person with black skin, an Indigenous person.
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| James C. Lewis, photographer |
If Jesus is to have any power in our lives, if Jesus is to teach us anything, Jesus cannot have any privilege. So when Jesus sends the disciples out to the lost tribes of Israel, I imagine Jesus sending them to people like himself: to those whom empire devalues and discards, harassed and helpless, without protection or voice.
Usually when we hear the words “proclaim the good news” or “proclaim the gospel” we hear evangelism, as though the disciples are knocking on doors, handing out religious tracts, moving through crowds seeking converts, asking if they’ve been born again. Did we ever consider they were just inviting them to church?
But no, it was more than any of that. The good news, the gospel is this: “The kingdom” or “the kin-dom of heaven has come near”. The kin-dom: that realm, that reality in which all people, all creatures and the whole of creation, know themselves to be kin to one another, to be in solidarity with one another, and live accordingly.
The kin-dom of heaven is the direct opposite of empire. It is systemic change. It is the absence of force and the presence of justice. It is non-violent solutions and the decriminalization of human problems. A different kind of economy that values the dignity and worth of every human being. A radical transformation of community well-being. And so when I hear that Jesus gave the disciples authority over unclean spirits, to cast them out, and cure every disease and sickness, without money, to go peaceably without a means to defend themselves, I hear a reimagining of public safety and common good. I hear the need for relationships and partnerships based on mutual trust and consent. I hear the need for public social workers and fully funded education and healthcare and housing.
Yesterday I read these words on Twitter: “Whiteness can’t imagine abolition of the police or policing because all whiteness knows is control through violence, dominance, and subjugation. They don’t know safety outside of that; they can only feel safe if who they’re afraid of are living in fear and experiencing insecurity.” Whenever people struggle to be free, the kin-dom of heaven draws near, and the privileged resist. When we who are white and we who have privilege hear the words “Defund the police”, we resist. When those who are not white and who do not have privilege hear those words, they hear liberation, equality, safety.
When the rich man asked Jesus what must he do to inherit eternal life, and Jesus told him to sell all he had and give it to the poor and come follow him, Jesus was telling him he had to defund his privilege, but he could not do it and he went away grieving. Defunding the police means defunding privilege; defunding whiteness; defunding militarization; defunding prisons; defunding empire.
Can we, a predominantly white privileged church, imagine ourselves hospitable to this kin-dom of heaven, this anti-empire way of living? The words “defund” and “abolish” are used intentionally—to provoke change, to disturb the comfortable, to afflict our conscience, to engage our remorse—to put us in the same space as those who suffer when the police are called and weaponized against them. Activist Bree Newsome, who in 2015 climbed the flagpole in front the South Carolina capitol building and lowered the Confederate flag, tweeted this week, “Slavery wasn’t abolished. It was reformed.” Reforms are only the beginning of the deeper conversations that need to take place about our systems based on whiteness; about what it means to have power over versus to be entrusted with authority.
Are we willing to listen and learn from voices and experiences that are not dominant, these ones whom empire devalues and discards? If we think we’re doing enough, it’s pretty clear there’s more needed. And if that angers us, can we ask ourselves why? We’re on the cusp of birthing a radical transformation of this nation. And our vote is only the least of what will be required of us for the peace that only justice can bring.
Jesus—remember what Jesus we’re talking about—says that it will be more tolerable for the land of Sodom and Gomorrah on the day of judgment than it will be for that town or village or nation that resists the kin-dom. The sin of Sodom and Gomorrah was all to do with inhospitality and an institutional blind-eye to oppression—in effect not only a knee on the neck of the poor but also not intervening to stop it.
The Torah explains it this way: the city of Sodom was the most beautiful, fertile place to live but now it’s the Dead Sea. Why? What did they do? They had this incredible, rich land but they didn’t want anyone else to have what they had. What is ours is ours, they thought, and other people—well, what is theirs is theirs. What’s so wrong with that, we might ask?
Jewish wisdom teaches that there are four kinds of people. There are those who say what’s mine is yours and what’s yours is yours: these are the most generous hearts, the spiritual teachers among us. Most of us have yet to attain such a heart. There are others who say what’s mine is mine and what’s yours is mine too. We know who these people are. We call them grifters and thieves among others things. And yet it’s also the mindset of those who first came to these shores 400 years ago, those who enslaved Black and brown people. The third kind of person says what’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine—we’re all going to get along and share what we have, we’re all capable of good, but we have yet to be able to trust like that, to depend on each other like that. The fourth kind of person says what’s mine is mine and what’s yours is yours and on the surface it sounds not only reasonable but even egalitarian, much like any person you’d meet today.
And yet that is the sin of Sodom and Gomorrah. They had a beautiful, incredible place to live but it was theirs; they claimed it as their own and they weren’t about to let anyone else in or even pass through. This led to laws that said no one could offer hospitality, no one could give any assistance to travelers, and if someone did give help to someone, the people of Sodom could lynch you, could kill you, to be sure that no one else would ever help someone who was a stranger, who was not of Sodom. They instituted a system that kept them in privilege in a land that they claimed for themselves. And for this evil the story says they were destroyed. In this country that system is white supremacy, and it is about to destroy us unless we do something more than just reform it once again.
Whenever people struggle for freedom, the kin-dom of heaven draws near, and there is the potential for radical transformation but also for self-destruction. The radical transformation feels like destruction because we don’t know what it’s going to look like. And it all depends on whether we are hospitable, on whether we are able to open our lives and shelter change, to make room for the experiences of others unlike us, to de-center ourselves and instead center the lives of those who have little to no privilege.
We have been pushed onto the road, no purse, no staff, with only each other, and there’s no turning back now. The deep roots of systemic racism and the economy that supports it are being challenged once again and yet there’s a part of us that would just like to go back. But now it’s really not safe for any of us to do anything less than move forward. The early Church was notorious for disturbing the peace; they were the outside agitators wanted by those in power. White Christianity has propped up empire for long enough and it’s time to atone. What is our prophetic voice going to sound like now, except for “the kin-dom of heaven has come near”?
But no, it was more than any of that. The good news, the gospel is this: “The kingdom” or “the kin-dom of heaven has come near”. The kin-dom: that realm, that reality in which all people, all creatures and the whole of creation, know themselves to be kin to one another, to be in solidarity with one another, and live accordingly.
Yesterday I read these words on Twitter: “Whiteness can’t imagine abolition of the police or policing because all whiteness knows is control through violence, dominance, and subjugation. They don’t know safety outside of that; they can only feel safe if who they’re afraid of are living in fear and experiencing insecurity.” Whenever people struggle to be free, the kin-dom of heaven draws near, and the privileged resist. When we who are white and we who have privilege hear the words “Defund the police”, we resist. When those who are not white and who do not have privilege hear those words, they hear liberation, equality, safety.
When the rich man asked Jesus what must he do to inherit eternal life, and Jesus told him to sell all he had and give it to the poor and come follow him, Jesus was telling him he had to defund his privilege, but he could not do it and he went away grieving. Defunding the police means defunding privilege; defunding whiteness; defunding militarization; defunding prisons; defunding empire.
Are we willing to listen and learn from voices and experiences that are not dominant, these ones whom empire devalues and discards? If we think we’re doing enough, it’s pretty clear there’s more needed. And if that angers us, can we ask ourselves why? We’re on the cusp of birthing a radical transformation of this nation. And our vote is only the least of what will be required of us for the peace that only justice can bring.
Jesus—remember what Jesus we’re talking about—says that it will be more tolerable for the land of Sodom and Gomorrah on the day of judgment than it will be for that town or village or nation that resists the kin-dom. The sin of Sodom and Gomorrah was all to do with inhospitality and an institutional blind-eye to oppression—in effect not only a knee on the neck of the poor but also not intervening to stop it.
The Torah explains it this way: the city of Sodom was the most beautiful, fertile place to live but now it’s the Dead Sea. Why? What did they do? They had this incredible, rich land but they didn’t want anyone else to have what they had. What is ours is ours, they thought, and other people—well, what is theirs is theirs. What’s so wrong with that, we might ask?
Whenever people struggle for freedom, the kin-dom of heaven draws near, and there is the potential for radical transformation but also for self-destruction. The radical transformation feels like destruction because we don’t know what it’s going to look like. And it all depends on whether we are hospitable, on whether we are able to open our lives and shelter change, to make room for the experiences of others unlike us, to de-center ourselves and instead center the lives of those who have little to no privilege.
We have been pushed onto the road, no purse, no staff, with only each other, and there’s no turning back now. The deep roots of systemic racism and the economy that supports it are being challenged once again and yet there’s a part of us that would just like to go back. But now it’s really not safe for any of us to do anything less than move forward. The early Church was notorious for disturbing the peace; they were the outside agitators wanted by those in power. White Christianity has propped up empire for long enough and it’s time to atone. What is our prophetic voice going to sound like now, except for “the kin-dom of heaven has come near”?
Let's go.
Amen.
Benediction – enfleshed.com
We are not made powerless before evil.
Amen.
Benediction – enfleshed.com
We are not made powerless before evil.
We need not cower or turn away.
The Spirit of Christ sends us to live out the good news.
God equips us.
God enables us.
God empowers us.
May our shared longings for justice be a source of strength and hope in times of trouble.
Go with peace, and welcome the presence of God.
The Spirit of Christ sends us to live out the good news.
God equips us.
God enables us.
God empowers us.
May our shared longings for justice be a source of strength and hope in times of trouble.
Go with peace, and welcome the presence of God.
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