I can't recall the first time I ever confessed the Apostles' Creed.
But I can't imagine not confessing the Apostles' Creed.
The Apostles' Creed first appeared around 140 AD.
It's old -- and it's bold, bolder than we often give it credit for. In fact, the audaciousness of its historic claims easily get obscured by our familiarity with the ancient lines.
When early Christians confessed these lines, it was perhaps one of the greatest acts of political rebellion. Because in these words, when spoken, were spoken by people who had less than the political comforts of Constitutional protection. In these words, they were rejecting the narrative given to them by virtue of their Roman-ness: That Caesar was both dominus et deus -- lord and god. The narrative in these words from the Apostles' Creed are a direct political rebellion against the narratives of a surrounding culture that embraced political power and its violent underpinnings.
The Apostles' Creed is an act of political rebellion that refuses to believe the dominant narrative with the direct confession that, no, Caesar is not lord. Jesus is Lord of lords and King of kings. The God we worship is embodied not in Caesar but in Jesus. Jesus alone is the imago Dei. Not that image of Caesar at the local temple.
What strikes me today is how eerily similar our political situation is to those early Christians. The story our culture tells us is largely the same. And learning to say these words is the Christian act of defiance against that cultural narrative. Our narrative is that we believe God -- we believe the story of Jesus that has become our story. So we reject the modern narrative of political power and its presuppositions of violence and oppression. We believe the historic narrative to which the Apostles' Creed points, so we reject the narrative of death that is the narrative of our culture.
The only difference is that Christians now no longer fear the violence that underpins that political power as directed toward them. Theirs was a "hot" persecution. Christians in Philadelphia and elsewhere in Revelation (3.7-13) are being "outed" and disowned by fellow Jews (after all, Jews
probably value their hard-won reputation for getting along with Roman authorities), jailed and martyred. But in other cities, the pressure is a lot more subtle. It's "cool" persecution.
Ours is a "cool" persecution.
Things are peaceful here. Christians have, as in Laodicea (Revelation 3.14-22), learned to fly under the radar. Ours is a church that's well off and complacent. "Don't rock the boat, because the boat here is at least comfortable and comforting." "I've prospered and I need nothing." "I'm good, thanks."
Persecution is harassment due to belief. What's happening here and now falls outside some definitions of persecution. We American Christians have been sold a bill of goods and we've bought it. All of it. So we glide right over these words from the Apostles' Creed without giving it too much thought at all. We've bought into a corrupt system, and it's killing our discipleship. This is a rich, proud nation. The pax Americana (just another name for the Pax Romana) is our peace. The American economy (just another name for imperial economies like that of Rome) is our economy. We value self-determination. We speak speak in that first-person singular ("I'm good, thanks") without first learning to speak in that first-person plural of the Creed ("We believe"). Our church communities more resemble assemblages of individuals with a common purpose than a community knit together by the Spirit of God, shaped by the narratives we're given, rather that the ones we think we construct and adopt.
We're just a collection of individuals who think they're better off than they were four, or eight, years ago. We probably even think -- like those Laodoceans thought! -- that they were so well off because God loves us so much. (I'm looking at you, "Prosperity Gospel preachers".)
I've heard if you throw a frog into a kettle of boiling water, he'll jump out and run away. But if you throw a frog into a kettle of lukewarm water, and slowly bring it to a boil, he'll sit there.
That's what makes our "cool" persecution more effective than the "hot" sorts.
The pressure to conform in America is so cool that everyone buys into it. It's so subtle that most of us never realize what's happening. Everyone's too busy counting the cash to realize that we're all wretched, pitiable, blind, poor, naked.
Revelation is about the coming fall of the Church's greatest enemy -- imperial Rome, code-named "Babylon". And Rome looks a lot like America. As the world's peacekeeper, we make alliances and fight wars to help keep the world peaceful on our (American) terms. We are the center of the world economy. We just fought the battle of the century, over whether capitalism or socialism can manufacture more idols with more efficiency. And we won. We won big. Now no one is in the mood to hear that our national mythology puts us on the wrong side of God's kingdom.
See, the United Nations is not the beast. When the angel throws Babylon into the sea, and the merchants and investors and politicians weep and wail, they're talking about California! We Americans live in a society of immense power. The world watches our TV shows and movies, and listens to our music. It buys our brands. It eats our fast food. It speaks our language. It uses our software. It imitates our politics -- and we isolate those who don't play by our political rules. Our culture wants the whole world to look a certain way: Democratic, capitalistic, modern, individualistic, consumeristic, and private and pluralistic in matters of faith.
Our culture wants American Christians to fit this mold too. Did you think we don't tell our poor that wealth will solve their problems, and our rich that wealth has solved their problems? Did you think we aren't being pressured to conform to the demands of global democratic capitalism, sprinkled with patriotic sentimentality, and punished when faith gets in the way?
Yesterday, someone posted this picture to Facebook:
So I commented: "No. Any homeless person should be treated with the same kindness and respect as any other person. Deuteronomy 15.7-8 comes immediately to mind."
You can rest assured everyone else attempted to correct me and apply the appropriate passive pressure to conform. But my speech has been disciplined by learning to pray the Apostles' Creed, so I know better. And I should know well enough to anticipate that this sort of thing happens in myriads of ways every day.
In "hot" persecution, Christians are targets. In "cool" persecution, Christians are target markets. Babylon spends mega bucks on mottoes that are appropriate to the imperial gods we're supposed to serve -- the military, fast food, economics, you name it. Those gods, like Caesar, teach us that these gods are the way to happiness. So they tell us to put ourselves first. (What they really mean is to put that particular god first, but they won't tell you that directly. This is "cool" persecution, after all.) They tell us to define ourselves and gain status by this or that identity more than by our identity with Jesus.
And here's the thing: It works! We may be lukewarm about our faith, but certainly not about our allegiance to American military might.
The Apostles' Creed says all of that. Because it disciplines us to recognize that no claimant to power -- not even the United States Army -- gets to define who we are.
Make no doubt about it, praying the Apostles' Creed is an act of mutiny.
But I can't imagine not confessing the Apostles' Creed.
The Apostles' Creed first appeared around 140 AD.
It's old -- and it's bold, bolder than we often give it credit for. In fact, the audaciousness of its historic claims easily get obscured by our familiarity with the ancient lines.
When early Christians confessed these lines, it was perhaps one of the greatest acts of political rebellion. Because in these words, when spoken, were spoken by people who had less than the political comforts of Constitutional protection. In these words, they were rejecting the narrative given to them by virtue of their Roman-ness: That Caesar was both dominus et deus -- lord and god. The narrative in these words from the Apostles' Creed are a direct political rebellion against the narratives of a surrounding culture that embraced political power and its violent underpinnings.
The Apostles' Creed is an act of political rebellion that refuses to believe the dominant narrative with the direct confession that, no, Caesar is not lord. Jesus is Lord of lords and King of kings. The God we worship is embodied not in Caesar but in Jesus. Jesus alone is the imago Dei. Not that image of Caesar at the local temple.
What strikes me today is how eerily similar our political situation is to those early Christians. The story our culture tells us is largely the same. And learning to say these words is the Christian act of defiance against that cultural narrative. Our narrative is that we believe God -- we believe the story of Jesus that has become our story. So we reject the modern narrative of political power and its presuppositions of violence and oppression. We believe the historic narrative to which the Apostles' Creed points, so we reject the narrative of death that is the narrative of our culture.
The only difference is that Christians now no longer fear the violence that underpins that political power as directed toward them. Theirs was a "hot" persecution. Christians in Philadelphia and elsewhere in Revelation (3.7-13) are being "outed" and disowned by fellow Jews (after all, Jews
probably value their hard-won reputation for getting along with Roman authorities), jailed and martyred. But in other cities, the pressure is a lot more subtle. It's "cool" persecution.
Ours is a "cool" persecution.
Things are peaceful here. Christians have, as in Laodicea (Revelation 3.14-22), learned to fly under the radar. Ours is a church that's well off and complacent. "Don't rock the boat, because the boat here is at least comfortable and comforting." "I've prospered and I need nothing." "I'm good, thanks."
Persecution is harassment due to belief. What's happening here and now falls outside some definitions of persecution. We American Christians have been sold a bill of goods and we've bought it. All of it. So we glide right over these words from the Apostles' Creed without giving it too much thought at all. We've bought into a corrupt system, and it's killing our discipleship. This is a rich, proud nation. The pax Americana (just another name for the Pax Romana) is our peace. The American economy (just another name for imperial economies like that of Rome) is our economy. We value self-determination. We speak speak in that first-person singular ("I'm good, thanks") without first learning to speak in that first-person plural of the Creed ("We believe"). Our church communities more resemble assemblages of individuals with a common purpose than a community knit together by the Spirit of God, shaped by the narratives we're given, rather that the ones we think we construct and adopt.
We're just a collection of individuals who think they're better off than they were four, or eight, years ago. We probably even think -- like those Laodoceans thought! -- that they were so well off because God loves us so much. (I'm looking at you, "Prosperity Gospel preachers".)
I've heard if you throw a frog into a kettle of boiling water, he'll jump out and run away. But if you throw a frog into a kettle of lukewarm water, and slowly bring it to a boil, he'll sit there.
That's what makes our "cool" persecution more effective than the "hot" sorts.
The pressure to conform in America is so cool that everyone buys into it. It's so subtle that most of us never realize what's happening. Everyone's too busy counting the cash to realize that we're all wretched, pitiable, blind, poor, naked.
Revelation is about the coming fall of the Church's greatest enemy -- imperial Rome, code-named "Babylon". And Rome looks a lot like America. As the world's peacekeeper, we make alliances and fight wars to help keep the world peaceful on our (American) terms. We are the center of the world economy. We just fought the battle of the century, over whether capitalism or socialism can manufacture more idols with more efficiency. And we won. We won big. Now no one is in the mood to hear that our national mythology puts us on the wrong side of God's kingdom.
See, the United Nations is not the beast. When the angel throws Babylon into the sea, and the merchants and investors and politicians weep and wail, they're talking about California! We Americans live in a society of immense power. The world watches our TV shows and movies, and listens to our music. It buys our brands. It eats our fast food. It speaks our language. It uses our software. It imitates our politics -- and we isolate those who don't play by our political rules. Our culture wants the whole world to look a certain way: Democratic, capitalistic, modern, individualistic, consumeristic, and private and pluralistic in matters of faith.
Our culture wants American Christians to fit this mold too. Did you think we don't tell our poor that wealth will solve their problems, and our rich that wealth has solved their problems? Did you think we aren't being pressured to conform to the demands of global democratic capitalism, sprinkled with patriotic sentimentality, and punished when faith gets in the way?
Yesterday, someone posted this picture to Facebook:
So I commented: "No. Any homeless person should be treated with the same kindness and respect as any other person. Deuteronomy 15.7-8 comes immediately to mind."
You can rest assured everyone else attempted to correct me and apply the appropriate passive pressure to conform. But my speech has been disciplined by learning to pray the Apostles' Creed, so I know better. And I should know well enough to anticipate that this sort of thing happens in myriads of ways every day.
In "hot" persecution, Christians are targets. In "cool" persecution, Christians are target markets. Babylon spends mega bucks on mottoes that are appropriate to the imperial gods we're supposed to serve -- the military, fast food, economics, you name it. Those gods, like Caesar, teach us that these gods are the way to happiness. So they tell us to put ourselves first. (What they really mean is to put that particular god first, but they won't tell you that directly. This is "cool" persecution, after all.) They tell us to define ourselves and gain status by this or that identity more than by our identity with Jesus.
And here's the thing: It works! We may be lukewarm about our faith, but certainly not about our allegiance to American military might.
The Apostles' Creed says all of that. Because it disciplines us to recognize that no claimant to power -- not even the United States Army -- gets to define who we are.
Make no doubt about it, praying the Apostles' Creed is an act of mutiny.