|
"A Tale of Two Mountains" Over spring break a few years back our family went to South Dakota on vacation. We stayed at two different working cattle ranches. It was right at calving time, so that was terrific. We saw the sights of the Badlands and the Black Hills. We visited Custer State Park, Reptile Gardens, the Mammoth Site and of course, we also visited Mt. Rushmore. At Mt. Rushmore, after staring up at the sculpture for a few minutes we then went down below into the visitor center to view the 15-minute informational film narrated by Tom Brokaw, a South Dakota native. The language of the film went like this: “The sculptor, Gutzon Borglum, wanted to memorialize some of the greatest men in American history. The sculpture honors the greatest attributes of man and is itself a great achievement of mankind.” Man and mankind just pummeled the ears of the sensitive listener. Kris and I were flinching. The whole enterprise is so masculine. Think about what took place. Using powerful, noisy explosives, men forced their will on nature, to create, on land sacred to Native Americans, this mammoth sculpture of four Euro-American males, all famous for their leadership during wars. Mt. Rushmore is quintessentially masculine—the ultimate example of “marking one’s territory.” For all that, I kinda like it; it’s pretty darn impressive. I’m not excited for humankind to hammer any more faces on mountains, but if we do I hope we can get a little more diversity. Crazy Horse is a good start, and of course some women and other people of color would be welcome. So what does this have to do with Palm Sunday? The Jews were hoping for a Mt Rushmore sort of Messiah, a George Washington on war horse to lead the violent revolution, or a Teddy Roosevelt, “talk softly but carry a big stick,” charging up San Juan Hill, sword in hand. A Mt. Rushmore sort of Messiah is what they had come to expect and what the deeply desired, to get them out from under the thumb of the Romans. But instead of a Mt. Rushmore messiah they got a Mt of Olives messiah. They got a Messiah that did not charge up the mountain on a war horse, but one who rode down the mountain on a donkey, the mode of transportation used by a king coming in peace. He didn’t carry a big stick. In fact, on the Mt. of Olives a few nights later, Jesus told Peter to put away his sword. Jesus didn’t carry a big stick; he allowed himself to be nailed to one. And what does that have to do with us? Let me share a story from Shane Claiborne, a very interesting follower of Jesus, who wrote this article for Sojourners Magazine a few years ago. I’ve been thinking a lot about the ethos of violence that is spreading like a disease through our world. I just read that TV violence is at a record high, with an average of 13 incidents of violence every hour. Homicides here in Philly and Camden have been happening almost every day. And of course there is Iraq. I just told a group of graduate students I would like to see them do a study comparing the ethos of violence globally with the violence on the streets here in the U.S. Remember how the Columbine shooting happened on the same day that the Clinton-led U.S. forces bombed Kosovo most intensively? It’s hard to imagine that these recent murders and school shootings are somehow separate from the current escalation of principalities and powers. These are not just lofty thoughts to ponder, but incidents of violence I have experienced in the last 10 years of living here in the inner city have been since the Iraq war started. One of them was about a week ago. I am including a little account of it here, mostly because I am really proud of my friend Cassim and how he handled the situation. I think he has some things to teach those who continue to trust in the myth of redemptive violence. Cassim and I were walking to the post office, a walk I take several times a week. (It’s on the better side of the tracks.) Cassim is one of the gentle kids, one I hope to never see lose his innocence and trust, or his heart grow hard. He likes cooking with us, gardening, getting beat at Othello – even cleaning the house or doing homework. I’ve always thought it funny and out-of-character that he is in a boxing club run by some Christians around the corner from us. Christian boxing… hmm. Cassim is 11 and his mom doesn’t let him out a lot, so you can imagine that when we got jumped I was caught a little off-guard. We were walking down the narrow side street, and some teenaged guys started following behind. You could just feel the mischief brewing, and it grew from two young men to four and then eight, until there was a little mob of sorts. They started calling out some names, throwing rocks and sticks, trying to stir up trouble. It’s always hard on the spot like that to know exactly what Jesus would do. I told Cassim, “Let’s go say hi.” He looked at me skeptically. We turned back and walked towards them (knowing full well that if we had run we may have made it to the post office). “Hey, I’m Shane. And this is my friend Cassim. We live around the corner,” I said with my hand out. They weren’t really sure what to do with that. A couple of them shook my hand and introduced themselves. Others snickered. One or two refused the handshake. We said, “Nice to meet you guys,” and headed on our walk. With the wind taken out of their sail a bit, they regrouped, and then continued to build momentum towards a violent brawl. They ran after us, throwing some rocks and bottles, and I noticed two of them now carried a couple of broomsticks from the trash. We picked up the pace a bit, and then I looked at Cassim and said, “no, don’t run.” We turned back and before we knew it, one of them clocked Cassim on the side of the head with a stick. I said firmly, “Why would you do that? We haven’t done anything to hurt you.” They laughed. Then they started hitting me with the broomstick until it broke over my back. At this point I decided to bust out a can of holy anger. I looked them in the eyes and said as forcefully as I could, “You are created in the image of God… every single one of you. And you were made for something better than this. Cassim and I are followers of Jesus and we do not fight, but we will love you no matter what you do to us.” That wasn’t exactly what they expected or hoped for. They looked at each other, startled a bit… for the first time, they were completely quiet. And then they scurried off in every direction. I’ll never forget what Cassim said afterwards. “Shane, why am I taking boxing lessons?” We laughed at the irony of it, having just experienced a prime chance to implement doing things Jesus’ way. I asked Cassim frankly what he thought would have happened if he had chosen to fight. “It would have been ugly,” he said. “They might have been bloody and we probably would have been real bloody.” No one would have left and nicer, that was for sure. I asked Cassim if he thought Jesus was happy with how we acted. He thought about it, and then nodded with a smile. I told him that, honestly, I wasn’t sure exactly what Jesus would have done if he wee in our place… but there are two things I know Jesus would not have done. He would not have fought. And he would not have run. I told him Jesus may have thought of something else, or he may have done something weird to throw them off, as he often seems to do—like drawing in the dirt with his finger (or writing on the road with sidewalk chalk, “you are better than this”) or maybe pulling a coin out of a fish’s mouth. But I think Jesus would be happy with how we acted, and that we were good representatives—good witnesses—of Christ to them. Cassim agreed, and then we prayed for them together. And finally, as he was leaving, Cassim reminded me that each of those boys has to go to bed thinking about what they did that day, and so did we. I‘m not sure about those other boys, but Cassim and I both slept well that night… and woke up a little sore but happy the next morning. Hopefully Cassim’s mom will let him come out of the house. Then Claiborne concluded his article by quoting from a speech Martin Luther King, Jr. delivered in 1967 at Riverside Church in New York City. He said,, I have told (the young men in the ghetto) that Molotov cocktails and rifles would not solve their problems. But they asked, and rightly so, what about Vietnam? They asked if our own nation wasn’t using massive doses of violence to solve its problems. Their questions hit home, and I knew that I could never again raise my voice against the violence of the oppressed in the ghettos without having first spoken clearly to the greatest purveyor of violence in the world today—my own government. (In A Time to Break the Silence.) In the Garden of Gethsemane Jesus didn’t run and he didn’t fight. He didn’t call down twelve legions of angels to do battle for him, which he could have done. Jesus didn’t carry a big stick. He allowed himself to be nailed to one. But that was not the last word. We live in resurrection power! May we be faithful witnesses. To God be the honor and the glory and the praise, now and forever. Amen!
|
