Thanks Be to God through Jesus Christ

Neal Kentch

I remember participating in a "discernment process" several years ago at an Assembly of the Christian Church in the Upper Midwest. The topic of this process was racism. I do not now recall the reasoning put forward by the presenters, but I remember being persuaded. I saw how so deeply embedded is the power of racism in the structures of our society that I, simply by participating in that society as a white person, become what I would rather not be: a racist. I remember being shocked, angered, and saddened by this realization and I remember the ancient words of the Apostle Paul in Romans 7 coming to my mind clearly: "I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do. Now if I do what I do not want, it is no longer I that do it, but sin that dwells within me." I wanted to stand and shout to the Assembly and from my despair, "Wretched man that I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death?" But I did not, for I was afraid. I was not sure anyone among the assembled would know to shout the answer I long to hear: "Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!"

I have since thought long and hard about this experience. It has become a touchstone for my thought about our life together in the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) and of what the Christian life might consist.

We Disciples are good people; we are a moral people, a moral church. That we are troubled by the power of racism in our society, in our church, and within ourselves as individuals is evidence of our moral earnestness. And we proclaim our moral seriousness to ourselves and to the rest of the world with all of our mission statements and with the themes we give to our various assemblies. "Called to Be…" Called to be this and that are we. We Disciples also have our practical side; we are a reasonable and pragmatic people. Having discerned our moral obligations—what God is calling us to be and do—we use our heads and figure out how we can best go about being and doing whatever it is God is calling us to be and do. We Disciples are good people; ours is a moral church.

But it is not enough. We are good people but our moral seriousness—our righteousness—is not enough. The power of racism, as it was discerned by the aforementioned Assembly, is, indeed, powerful. It is beyond our moral will. It is more powerful than our power to choose, our power to decide and act. We are not thus excused from our moral seriousness and from taking whatever steps toward reconciliation that open before us. But we must not fool ourselves; the power of racism is much too strong and is too deeply embedded in that society in which we have no choice but to participate. We cannot free ourselves from this "body of death". We are not able to solve this "problem" on our own, either as individuals or as a church, however much we wish we could. We Disciples are good people. But our righteousness is simply not enough. Something more is needed.

In his Letter to the Romans, in the first chapter, the Apostle Paul writes of the power and righteousness of God revealed. Later, in chapter 3, he writes, "But now, apart from the law, the righteousness of God is disclosed…" Our righteousness, or goodness, is one thing, but Paul writes of something else altogether. He writes of God’s righteousness, of God’s goodness, a goodness exceeding by far our own and that of anyone or anything else.

How can I speak of such a thing, of this goodness far exceeding any goodness I can imagine? What can I say? I can speak of God’s kindness, but it is a kindness that far exceeds the kindness of the kindest person. I can speak of God’s faithfulness, but it is a faithfulness far greater than that of the trustworthiest among us. I can speak of God’s love, but it is a love that has no end, that knows no bounds. I have no choice but to use those mind-bending phrases of the psalmist: As high as the heavens are above the earth and as far as the east is from the west, so great is the goodness—the righteousness—of God. In the end, words and the power of reason fail and what remains for me is the awareness, the intuition, the wonder of the mystic. What remains is a wordless kind of prayer in which I am lost in the goodness of God, in which it is that I am more known and understood than it is that I know and understand.

This goodness of God—what Paul calls the righteousness of God—is perfect and it shines like the sun and falls like the rain upon the righteous and the sinner, upon the just and the unjust, alike. Indeed, Paul announces that the goodness of God is now so shining and falling, that the righteousness of God is now making its presence known and its power felt in the world. Those powers—racism is but one of these powers—that so limit what is possible and hold us captive are undone, are destroyed. And the time is fulfilled. The kingdom of God is at hand. Blessed are the poor, the hungry, those who weep. The blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, the poor have good news brought to them. And thousands are fed with but a few loaves and a couple of fish.

But who’s kidding who? Is any of this at all possible? Isn’t all of this too good to be true? And what could I possibly say about such a time, such a day? What can I possibly say about such a kingdom? How can I even begin to describe it, wretched man that I am? As I open my mouth to speak, the earth begins to quake beneath my feet, the sun darkens, the moon fails to give its light, and the stars fall from heaven. The first heaven and the first earth pass away. And I, too, am undone. What remains for me is the fractured language of the apocalypse and a wordless longing, a sighing too deep for words, a prayer: "Thy kingdom come, thy will be done."

In the years since that Assembly in Iowa, I have found that my life as a Christian consists less of my faith, of my thinking and believing the right things, for God’s faithfulness to me in Jesus Christ exceeds my capacity to think and is more than I can express. Indeed, I can hardly believe it. And my life as a Christian consists less of my righteousness, of my doing the right things. I may be good and I may be righteous, but all of it is rubbish and filthy rags before the goodness and righteousness of God. Why should I trust in my own righteousness when God’s righteousness is so much more and more powerful? My life as a Christian consists in the righteousness of God. It consists in the righteousness of God and I find that it consists of an awareness of God’s goodness—the awareness of the mystic—and of a longing for that goodness, for what is now hidden, to be made known in the world—the longing of the apocalypse. First of all and for the most part, I find that my life as a Christian consists of prayer, a wordless kind of prayer. Of whatever else this life consists, it follows and flows from this unceasing kind of prayer.

And I think of our life together in the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ). I think we are much too concerned with ourselves. Whether we hear a prophetic voice commanding us to be and to do this and that or whether we are concerned to keep every jot and tittle of scripture, we are much too concerned with our own righteousness and that of the other—or the other’s lack of it. The good Apostle reminds us in Romans 3.21 that the law and the prophets attest to something more. They point us to the righteousness of God. It is in the righteousness of God—and apart from the law—that our life together consists, Jesus Christ joining us together, when we gather about the table in worship, into the body of Christ, a new creation. And we pray around that table. We pray, "Thy kingdom come, thy will be done." We pray longing for that day when all will know the goodness that has been given to us to know.

I am looking for that day when all of us say together, "Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ."