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For a society that valued all things masculine, the Romans sure did build a lot of grand temples for their goddesses. It surprised me when I learned that in Asia Minor, where we spent much of our time on our study abroad to Türkiye, that the majority of the cities were built around two prominent deities. Not two gods like Jupiter (Zeus) and Neptune (Poseidon) or Apollo and Ares (Mars), but two goddesses—Artemis (Diana), the maternal goddess of the moon, and Athena (Minerva), goddess of wisdom and warfare. The reason this surprised me is because everything else within the language and culture of the Roman Empire was discernibly masculine. Value was placed on competition and athleticism, with community members vying for the identity of victor in all aspects of life. This language bleeds into our Biblical texts as well, particularly in the New Testament, which was written in the first century Roman Empire and influenced by the culture in which it was steeped. Paul, a Roman citizen and therefore raised within this culture, often used athletic metaphors that are clearly influenced by the Roman gymnasiums, which were formative places for young men in the empire. One of the most striking examples of this language is in 1 Corinthians 9:24-27:
“Do you not know that in a race the runners all compete, but only one receives the prize? Run in such a way that you may win it. Athletes exercise self-control in all things; they do it to receive a perishable wreath, but we an imperishable one. So I do not run aimlessly, nor do I box as though beating the air, but I punish my body and enslave it, so that after proclaiming to others I myself should not be disqualified.” The gymnasiums were huge structures that often included a facade that could rival the nearby temples, with pillars and carvings and giant archway entrances. Inside these gymnasiums, boys and men would receive both mental and physical training in the libraries, bathhouses, pools, and training yards. These structures also became centers of social and political gatherings. In many ways, the gymnasiums and temples had a lot in common as centers for intellectual, social, and political discourse as well as having their distinction as places of physical exercise in the gymnasiums and worship in the temples. The other stark difference between the two is that the gymnasiums were distinctly masculine spaces and the goddess temples were decidedly feminine. I do not believe it to be too much of a stretch to assume that in writing to the Christians embedded in these cultures of goddess worship, Paul would have leaned into the masculine, gymnasium metaphors of discipline and training and condemned the activities common in temple worship—namely those listed in the epistles like Galatians: “sexual immorality, impurity, sensuality, idolatry, sorcery…, drunkenness, orgies, and things like these” (Galatians 5:19-21). This is not because Paul was a misogynist. In fact, Paul highly respected women like Junia, who Paul calls “prominent among the Apostles” (Romans 16:7); Prisca, who Paul notably names ahead of her husband and commends for her house church and for risking her life for him (Romans 16:3-5); and Phoebe, who Paul names as a minister and benefactor (Romans 16:1-2). Instead, Paul uses “victor” language because he had the near impossible task of bringing together a diverse group of people—geographically, religiously, sociopolitically—and setting them apart as followers of the one true God when all around them other idols—or “opponents” (gods and goddesses, political power, wealth, etc.)— competed for their attention. Athleticism and competition were the most appropriate and relatable metaphors Paul had in his arsenal. In addition, it is quite possible that Paul was attempting to create as much distance as possible from metaphors that even hinted at the prevalent, feminine goddess worship so popular in that region. Therefore, even though this language may feel exclusionary to people who are not athletes and especially people who identity as female, Paul’s message was not intended to exclude people based on gender or physical prowess. Rather, Paul is calling all people—Jew and Greek, slave and free, male and female, all one in Christ Jesus (Galatians 3:28)—to “press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called [us]” (Philippians 3:14). Today, we are also called into this same discipline of focus, self-control, and teamwork that continues to be an important aspect of our athletic culture as well as our religious culture. For the prize we seek is not a worldly prize, not a perishable wreath or tarnishable gold medal, but rather the imperishable promise of eternal life with God (1 Corinthians 9:25).
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One of the ancient cities we visited in Asia Minor was Hierapolis, known as both a city of healing and a city of death. Built atop mineral-rich thermal springs, Hierapolis drew people from all over the Roman Empire to seek these healing waters or to send loved ones to Hades via what was believed to be a gate to the underworld. This gate is a gaping maw in the landscape through which flows a portion of the labyrinthine network of springs below the surface. As the warm waters meet the outside air, steam billows out of the entrance, giving it a surreal, almost magical appearance. To the ancient people, this was a portal to the river Styx whereby a person would travel from the living to the dead.
The priests of Pluto—the Roman name for the Greek god Hades, god of the underworld—built a temple atop this alleged door to his kingdom. Invoking the name of Pluto, the priests would perform elaborate rituals and sacrifices to prove that this arched stone was truly the separation between realms of the living and the dead. The thermal springs emitted toxic carbon dioxide, and the concentration of these noxious fumes in the spring entrance would kill anything within a matter of minutes. The Plutonian priests would sacrifice bulls by leading them into this cave, all the while holding their breath so as not to asphyxiate like the unlucky sacrificial animals. The people believed Pluto sent the poison gas from the underworld and granted his priests divine protection. Ancient pagan religions relied on such magic tricks, and whether the priests believed in their own divine power or were knowing fabricators of such magic is still speculated. Either way, there was power in being the mediator between the worlds of gods and men, so it should not surprise us that some people tried to gain power through invoking the name of a new Messianic god—Jesus. In Acts 19, Luke records a “comical scene,” where seven brothers attempt an exorcism using Jesus’ name. They had heard of Paul, through whom “God did extraordinary miracles” (Acts 19:11), and documents recovered from antiquity contain “magical formulas… that invoke names of deities, including names of God used in the Old Testament and even Jesus’ name.” With such a precedent, what could possibly go wrong? A lot, according to the story. When the brothers attempted the exorcism on the man using Jesus’ name, the evil spirit confronted the brothers saying, “Jesus I know, and Paul I know, but who are you?” before overpowering them and sending them out naked and wounded (Acts 19:15-16). There is a clear message in this story—God’s name is not to be used for purposes of self-aggrandizement. When we call on the name of God, we do so not to manipulate, not to gain power or fame, not for our own benefit, but humbly and for right reasons. Unlike the pagan practices whereby priests gained power for their part in the miracle and the special protections they and other believed they gained from their gods, Christianity is about allowing the self to be a conduit for God’s work, shining the light on what God is doing through us as opposed to what we are doing in the name of God. This story in Acts is a warning against using God’s miracles as the pagans used magic tricks—“as a means of controlling human experience,” but rather to bring people closer to God through relationship with the Divine. The commandment against using the Lord’s name in vain is less about the “Oh my God!” expletive and more about the misuse of God’s name to gain power or wealth, to control or coerce others through spiritual and emotional manipulation, or in any other way cause harm by twisting God into a tool for our own agenda. God’s name is powerful, and as such, we are to use it reverently and handle it with care. We are to know and understand its power and speak it accordingly. “The gospel claims this name’s reach is cosmic and total;” may we invoke God’s name and God’s miracles humbly, with the emphasis on God’s work and not our own. Of all the books of the Bible, I would venture to guess that Revelation is, by far, the most intriguing, misunderstood, and art-inspiring. It has provided language and imagery for postapocalyptic films like Apocalypto and I Am Legend as well as books like the Left Behind series. In addition, scholars have produced a wealth of academic and theological research to keep us learning for a lifetime. I will admit that I have spent less time in Revelation than other books in the Bible, mostly because it is confusing and violent, and I just have not spent enough time on the study of its content to make much sense of it. So, I was excited to embark on my recent study abroad in Türkiye because the content of this class, Early Church and Empire, promised to dive into Revelation and set it in its historical and cultural context. Although we could not get into the entirety of Revelation because this class was not solely focused on the exegesis (a fancy word for critical interpretation of scripture) of Revelation, we were able to take a deep look into the first three chapters containing prophecies of Revelation to the early first-century church.
Revelation is more than just apocalypse writing. It is a prophetic message to Christians living in the seven largest cities in the Greco-Roman empire in the second half of the first century. In the Bible, prophecy is not just future-telling, it is a description of what presently is through the eyes of God. It is often an indictment against God’s people when they stray from God, like when Hosea proclaims: “Hear the word of the LORD, O people of Israel; for the LORD has an indictment against the inhabitants of the land. There is no faithfulness or loyalty, and no knowledge of God in the land.” (Hosea 4:1) Prophesy can also be a positive promise to God’s people based on their obedience, like when Isaiah says: “Do not fear, for I am with you, Do not be afraid, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will keep you, I will uphold you with my victorious right hand.” (Isaiah 41:10) Both genres of prophecy are apparent in the first three chapters of Revelation, where we spent the majority of our studies. John, claiming to testify on behalf of God and Jesus Christ (Revelation 1:1), prophesied either an indictment or promise (or a mix of both) to each of the seven churches depending on whether they “accommodated themselves to the lordship claims of Rome or defiantly proclaimed the lordship claims of God and Christ.” Did the Christians in each city follow God or did they succumb to the religion of the Greco-Roman empire and its pantheon? Like the prophecies and promises of the Old Testament, each of the prophecies and promises in Revelation were justified by the strengths and failures of the people of God, and each church was given an instruction with a promise, signified by a tangible sign or symbol. A good example of this in the Old Testament is the story of Noah. In this story, God proclaimed the wickedness of the people (failure) as justification for destroying the earth (Genesis 6:5-7) and the righteousness and blamelessness of Noah (strength) (Genesis 6:9). Once the flood subsided, God instructed Noah to be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth (Genesis 9:1), promising that He would never again destroy the earth with water (Genesis 9:11). God then gave Noah a tangible sign of a rainbow to signify His promise (Genesis 9:13). John addresses each of the seven churches in Revelation in a similar fashion, including their strengths and failures, instruction and promise, as well as a tangible sign or symbol. Here are a few examples. In its letter, Smyrna is described as rich in good works (strength) (Revelation 2:9), instructed to “be faithful until death” (Revelation 2:10), and promised to “not be harmed by the second death” (Revelation 2:11) signified by the symbol of “the crown of life” (Revelation 9:10). On the other end of the indictment-promise spectrum, in its letter Laodicia is described as “Lukewarm” (Revelation 3:16) and spiritually “wretched, pitiable, poor, blind, and naked” (Revelation 3:17) (failure). God instructs Laodicia to repent (Revelation 3:19), promising them a place to eat with God (Revelation 3:19), signified by the symbols of a “white robe” and “eye-salve” (Revelation 3:18). Four of the other churches (with the exception of Philadelphia) are described as having both strengths and weaknesses, like Thyatira, described as having “love, faith, service and patient endurance” (strength) (Revelation 2:19) as well as being idolatrous and immoral (failure) (Revelation 2:20). They are instructed to “hold fast” to their faith (Revelation 2:25) so that they may earn the promise of “authority over the nations,” signified by “the morning star” (Revelation 2:28). Prophecies are addressed to their original audiences and may also speak to us. In the prophecies of Revelation, we are reminded of God’s instruction to put God first over worldly powers. We are called to be faithful like Smyrna and enduring like Thyatira (strengths). We are warned against being spiritually lukewarm like Laodicia and immoral like Thyatira (failures). Like all of God’s people throughout history, we are instructed to repent and hold fast to our faith in the midst of worldly temptations and struggle; and by the grace and love of God, we are promised a seat at God’s banquet and eternal life with Him, symbolized by the water, bread, and wine of our Baptismal and Communion Sacraments. In every ancient city we visited in Türkiye and Asia Minor, the most prominent structures were the temples built to honor the emperor or one of the many gods or goddesses in the Greco-Roman pantheon. These architectural wonders were often situated atop the highest point in the city, or were in and of themselves the highest buildings in the city. They were sites of worship as well as centers of economic activity, functioning as “financial institutions, marketplaces, and meeting places.” Much of life revolved around these centers and the religious rites and civic discourse that occurred there. The danger and challenge of being a follower of Christ in the midst of an empire built on an opposing religion came alive in the ruins of these ancient cities and is writ large in the writings of John in Revelation.
As an inhabitant of the empire, one was expected to participate in the imperial religion. Because of the imperial religion’s ties to all aspects of civic life, to not participate meant to cut oneself off from these centers of commerce, trade, and politics. In addition, “failure to participate could be perceived by others as a lack of commitment, not only to the empire but also to the protective powers of the imperial leader.” In Revelation, John exhibits no mercy for those who caved in to the pressures of their society. Using harsh language in his letters to the seven churches, which correspond to the seven largest cities within the ancient Greco-Roman empire, John rebukes not the pagan worshipers but the Christians for their failure to set themselves apart from the predominant religion of the empire. I wonder, as I reflect on what it means to be part of a minor religion in an empire intertwined with a major religion, what message Revelation has for us today. Although we, as members of the ELCA, are part of the predominant religion of Christianity in America, there are many ways we practice our faith that differ from the culture of “Christian Nationalism.” Today’s interlacing of Church and State have similarities to the interlacing of religion and empire in the ancient world, and we are called to set ourselves apart as Christians were called to set themselves apart from the imperial religion and way of life of the Greco-Roman world. Like the early Christians, we are called to disentangle ourselves from the “lure of social and economic progress that was promised to those who participated culturally” in the imperial religion. We are called, as the early Christians were called, to “wake up and strengthen what remains and is on the point of death” (Revelation 3:4). If we were the audience of John’s letters in Revelation, would he rebuke us as he rebuked the Church of Sardis for giving in to the dominant culture and abandoning what makes us unique as followers of Christ? Would John call us to revive the message of Jesus that continues to be drowned out by a form of Christian Triumphalism that favors the rich and powerful over those Jesus called us to serve and care for? Would John write to us of Jesus’ call to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and care for the sick when the government again cuts the taxes of the rich and thus fails to fund programs that serve these vulnerable ones? Would Jesus call us to welcome the foreigner when “America first!” rhetoric demands stronger borders? Would He call us to visit the imprisoned, whose crimes or convictions are too often the result of untreated mental illness, systemic poverty, and/or racism? I believe He would. Christianity in the early empire survived because of Christians’ interest in caring for these vulnerable groups amidst an empire that would rather eradicate them. A religion that cares for these groups today will survive long after our modern empires fall. So let us continue to do the work of God in our communities, in our nation, and in our world. Let us be the hands and feet of Jesus and all His followers throughout the millennia who put God first over political interests. I recently returned from a mini study abroad in Turkey at the end of May, and I have so much to share with you! So, if it’s alright, I’ll be dedicating my next several blogs to telling the stories and reflections from our time learning about the early church and the empire in which it grew.
It takes a bit of imagination to truly appreciate ancient ruins; just as it takes a bit of imagination to truly appreciate God. In both there is only so much we can see, feel, touch. There is only so much that is concretely in front of us, which we can point to and say, “yes, this is evidence of—“ The rest we are forced to fill in with our imaginations and dreamings. Admitting this takes a great deal of vulnerability and humility because we must hold our imaginings in an open hand, recognizing the thoughts and ideas born from imagination to simply be our best guess at a mystery unfathomable—that we could be wrong. Is our faith strong enough to withstand evidence contrary to what our imagination has told us is true? Can an archeologist undo years of work on a recreation when she discovers evidence that the layout of the city is not what she originally hypothesized? As we walked the ancient ruins of Ephesus and Pergamum, awed both by the grandeur of the original structures and by the archeological work to recreate such grandeur, I allowed my mind to wander and meander around these columns stretching to the heavens and under archways that seem architecturally impossible. My mind filled in the missing tiles from floor mosaics and painted over the cracks in the fresnos with vivid colors stolen from the fruits, flowers, and dirt all around us that would have been crushed into dyes. There is only so much you can take in sensorily, only so much that you can pronounce as accurate to a place’s original truth. The rest we rely on archeologists to use their knowledge, education, and intuition to fit stones one upon the other, to determine where the temple would have stood vs. the forum, and tell the story of what happened here. Why do we find it so easy to trust the archeologists of these ancient cities and so difficult to trust the theologians and translators of sacred Scripture? And what is it about us that causes us to believe that we are experts in knowing the Divine when we know we could never figure out how this pile of stones could be fit together to create a coliseum? Is not the Divine more complex, more nuanced, more unimaginable than that which was made by human hands? This reflection is crushing if we hold rigidly to the collective imaginings of humanity as Truth about the Divine. It may lead to a complete dismantling of our faith when faced with a situation that casts doubt on what we believe about God from human interpretation. Faith is about holding loosely to the mystery and allowing ourselves to just be (in awe) in the midst of God, content with the gaps in the mosaic stories of Their identity—I Am Who I AM; יהוה, the tetragram with missing vowels, impossible to pronounce. When God names God’s self, God purposefully invites mystery. Archeologists, even in the fullest recreations of these ancient sites, still leave holes for us to fill in with our dreamings. For how can we truly appreciate mystery, how can we truly have faith, if there is not room for questioning? Several years ago I approached a pastor and asked, “Are there any verses in the Bible that speak about women as being leaders in the faith or in any way provide evidence that we are not just second-class citizens in the family of God?” He answered, “If you’re looking for something prescriptive, you won’t find it. However, it’s in the descriptions of women throughout the Bible that we find evidence of women’s courage, faith, and ferocity. It is in the example of Miriam who approached Pharaoh’s daughter to save her brother Moses and the way she danced with a tambourine and sang her people’s victory song after the Red Sea crashed down on Pharaoh’s army. It is in Ruth’s love and loyalty to her Mother-in-law and her willingness to break social mores by seducing Boaz into providing a life for her and Naomi. It is Esther who stood before Kings, Deborah who led armies, and Hagar who named God.” Since then I’ve read the Bible differently. It’s like re-reading a novel as an adult that we first read when we were too young to understand. It is filled with surprises and overlooked characters and glossed over stories tucked into the more popular narratives.
It is with these fresh eyes that I am rediscovering the women in the New Testament. Growing up, I remember the female followers of Jesus were often portrayed as an adoring gaggle of groupies and nowhere near equal to their male counterparts in their importance to Jesus’ mission. For example, did you know that Jesus’ female followers were responsible for bankrolling his entire ministry? Yep, that purse that Judas kept was filled with money that the women earned. You may not have known this because it is mentioned just briefly in the Gospel of Luke: “Now it came to pass, afterward, that He went through every city and village, preaching and bringing the glad tidings of the kingdom of God. And the twelve were with Him, and certain women who had been healed of evil spirits and infirmities—Mary called Magdalene, out of whom had come seven demons, and Joanna the wife of Chuza, Herod’s steward, and Susanna, and many others who provided for Him from their substance.” (Luke 8:1b-3 NKJV, emphasis added) I like this translation of the passage because it adheres the closest to the original Greek and leaves out a troubling addition present in some English translations like the NIV, which states “These women were helping to support them out of their own means,” inferring that they were not, in fact, the sole financial supporters of Jesus’ ministry as is stated in the original Greek. In addition, I recently stumbled across a provocative wondering by Joan Taylor, a theologian out of King College. Taylor hypothesized that when Jesus sent his twelve Apostles out to preach, cast out demons, and anoint with healing oil, as described in Mark 6, that twelve women may have been sent out on this mission as well. Her reasoning comes from the verse that states Jesus “began to send them out two by two.” This phrase, “two by two,” is the same phrase used in the book of Genesis to describe how the animals entered the ark “two by two…male and female of all flesh” (Genesis 7:15-16). Perhaps this turn of phrase was meant to imply a male-female pairing, which would mean that perhaps Jesus didn’t send out 6 pairs of men but rather 12 pairs of men and women. She asserts that not only does this make hermeneutical (the study of Biblical translation) sense, it also makes practical sense. During Jesus’ time there was still a very strict separation of men and women for propriety and modesty. These barriers may have made it difficult for the twelve male apostles to minister to women on their journeys. However, if each man was paired with a woman and they were sent out together, they would have had a much larger reach. While the men were publicly proclaiming the gospel and ministering to the sick, women could have entered into all-female, domestic spaces where men would not have been allowed. These female followers of Jesus could then have preached the Gospel in these private spaces and ministered and performed Baptisms for women, which would have been too intimate for a man. Regardless of whether or not this was the case, there are countless stories of women in the New Testament that exhibit profound faith and courage that mark them as equally significant in the spread of Christianity. Mary, the mother of Jesus, provoked Jesus’ first public miracle (John 2:1-12); Joanna used her position of wealth and power as the wife of Herod’s steward to finance and support Jesus’ ministry (Luke 8:1-3); Mary, the sister of Martha and Lazarus, convinced Jesus through her sorrow to raise Lazarus from the dead (John 11:32-44); the woman at the well was the first Samaritan to receive God’s inclusive grace; the female followers of Jesus were first to witness and proclaim Jesus’ resurrection (Mark 16:9-10, Luke 24: 1-10, John 20:11-18); Priscilla was a missionary (Romans 16:3); Junia earned the title Apostle (Romans 16:7); and Lydia opened her home to be one of the first Christian churches in Europe (Acts 16:11-40). I write this because we still seem to believe that there is some hierarchy in the eyes of God—that men were created to rule over women, that wealth and power are a sign of God’s favor, that we are measured by our own personal attributes and not by God’s abundant love and grace—and these beliefs continue to do incredible damage. However, the Bible is very clear that once we clothe ourselves with Christ, all of these personal attributes go away, and we all become equal heirs of God’s promise: “for in Christ Jesus you are all children of God through faith. As many of you as were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. There is no longer Jew or Greek; there is no longer slave or free; there is no longer male and female, for all of you are one in Christ Jesus. and if you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham’s offspring, heirs according to the promise.” (Galatians 3:26-29, NRSVUE) When you hear the name Mary Magdalene, what images come to mind? A woman, caught in the sin of adultery about to be stoned? A sex worker transformed by her encounter with Jesus? These are what most people think of when they hear the name Mary Magdalene, thanks to a preponderance of Biblical fan-fiction over the millennia that paint (sometimes literally) Mary as a fallen woman, enslaved to her sexual sin, before Jesus saved her.
But what if that is not how we were meant to remember her? We believe in a God who does not identify us with our sin; rather, we believe in a God that sees us through the lens of Jesus’ own sacrifice and our Baptism, which washes away our old lives and raises us into new life with God. So even if Mary was a sex worker, for which there is actually no Biblical evidence, I think God would want us to remember her for something more. Recently, new scholarly research has emerged that points to how Jesus may have actually wished for his friend to be remembered. In 2021 Elizabeth Schrader and Joan Taylor published an article in Journal of Biblical Literature, where they analyzed the epithet that accompanies Mary in the scriptures—Magdalene. Drawing from the original Greek, Hebrew, and Aramaic as well as texts from the earliest theologians—Origin, Eusebius, Macarius, Magnes, and Jerome—Schrader and Taylor posit that perhaps “Magdalene” was not an indication of where Mary was from; rather, perhaps it was a nickname she earned, like how Simon earned the nickname Peter (“The Rock”) and James and John earned the nickname “Sons of Thunder.” Magdala, when drawn from the source languages, means “The Tower,” and the grammatical structure indicates a feminine association and a preposition that is used in other parts of the Bible to indicate a descriptor of the person it accompanies rather than a location where that person is from. This hypothesis upends centuries of assumptions about Mary Magdalene, which unfairly diminishes her role in the greatest story ever told. Her actual role as a follower of Jesus is hidden in easily-missed verses scattered across the Gospels. When taken together, these verses describe a devoted woman who learned from her Rabbouni, her teacher (John 20:16) alongside the men in Jesus’ company. She, along with the other female followers of Jesus financially supported His ministry (Luke 8:1-3). There is some evidence that she may have been the unnamed woman who anointed Jesus’ feet with oil a week before his crucifixion (Luke 7:37-38). She stood weeping at the foot of the cross along with other female followers of Jesus (John 19:25; Matthew 26:55-56; Mark 15:40-41). She was the first witness of the empty tomb of Jesus “while it was still dark” on Easter Sunday (John 20:1). She was the first to proclaim this empty tomb (John 20:2). She was the first person Jesus appeared to in His resurrected body (John 20:14-16), and she was the first to preach Jesus’ resurrection to the disciples (John 20:18). I find it hard to believe that Jesus and the Gospel writers wanted Mary to slip into obscurity, known simply as the sex worker who hailed from a tiny town, which may or may not have even existed, called Magdala. No, Mary’s story is writ large in the Gospels, as large and towering as the Tower for which she was named—a tower of righteousness and faith—a name that placed her in equal standing with Peter the Rock in the foundation of the Christian faith. If your first reaction to this new perspective on Mary Magdalene is to feel utterly scandalized, you are not alone. Schrader and Taylor have received their fair share of pushback to their research, which highlights how deeply our faith is steeped in the male zeitgeist. To reevaluate prominent figures in our Christian faith often feels like reevaluating our entire faith, and this can be scary. But what truly is at stake here? The redemption of a woman long painted as a harlot who in actuality was one of the foundational evangelists who spread the original story of Jesus feels very much in line with the faith I attest. It feels very much in line with the God I worship—a God who created all of us in God’s own image, male and female God created us (Genesis 1:27); a God who chose a woman to bear Jesus into this world, women to keep watch at his death, and a woman to be the first witness and preacher of His resurrection. Why wouldn’t a Towering woman stand side-by-side with Peter the Rock as a co-founder of the Christian faith? “Having loved His own who were in the world, He loved them to the end.”
~John 13:1, NRSVUE Since adopting Milton, my unplanned-for canine companion, my mornings have looked like this—outside on the patio, with the screen still missing from the hurricane that inspired my pup’s name, dirt and half-chewed plush toys littering my once-clean patio (because I gave up on enforcing the “plushies are inside toys” rule), much-needed coffee, a devotional, and a very happy dog hunting lizards somewhere out in the yard. As a full-time seminary student and a full-time church leader, sometimes just keeping myself and my dog alive are things I celebrate at the end of each day. But I would be lying if I said there wasn’t a huge part of me that constantly feels defeated when I go to bed exhausted with dishes still in the sink and Milton hair balls rolling across the tile floor like tumbleweeds. My house is a mess most of the time, and sometimes it makes me feel like a failure. Perhaps this is why this verse from John’s Gospel is one of my favorites—John describing his beloved Jesus’ posture towards His people up until His last act of love and service—washing His friends’ feet. We keep our feet pretty clean, but in Jesus’ time, that was not the case. The night Jesus was to be arrested, betrayed by one of His own, He knelt before his friends and washed the dirt and grime and animal dung and whatever else had ground into the wrinkles and cracks of their feet. I imagine it would have felt mortifying for the disciples to have Jesus so intimately connected to their mess…and for Him to then wash them clean. I would probably feel that same mortification if I woke up one morning and found Jesus on His hands and knees scrubbing the floors of my home or repairing the screen on my patio. I would probably respond like Simon Peter did when Jesus came to him to wash his feet “Jesus! This is my mess! You are above this. You can’t clean my mess. I will take care of it!” We don’t want anyone near our mess, let alone Jesus. We are afraid to ask for help. We are embarrassed about what people will think of our mess. We really do think sometimes we can hide our mess from God. But often, it is right in the midst of our mess where God meets us. Our God is not the God of somewhere out there, above and distant and ruling from afar. Our God is the God who put on flesh to walk intimately among us. Our God lived in our mess and died for our mess, all the while loving us in our mess, and loving us to the end. Whatever mess is in your life that feels insurmountable, know that God is already there in the midst of it. It is not something to be ashamed of; rather, it is an opportunity to humble ourselves before our Savior and accept the gift of grace and unfathomable love that inspires our God to meet us in our mess over and over again. Jesus is going to die.
In less than a week, Jesus will hang, betrayed by his own. He is a man, desperate to say goodbye to those He loved so desperately in the world. He is a God, desperate to teach humanity the keys of Heaven before He goes. He is misunderstood and will be seen as a failure when He dies a criminal’s death instead of raising armies to overturn governments. He is utterly and completely alone in His despair. And so Jesus goes to a place that has always been His refuge—the home of Martha, Mary, and Lazarus. His dearest friends throughout His ministry—a sanctuary where He can breathe and be Himself and gather with those He loves. While there, eating the humble meal Martha has prepared, chatting with Lazarus, He notices a shift in Mary. Mary knows something the others do not. Mary, who knew that her place was at Jesus’ feet instead of in the kitchen with her sister where society expected her to be. Mary, who knew that Jesus could save her brother Lazarus when all hope was lost. Mary, who never hid her emotions or desires, even when they were scandalous. Mary knew Jesus was about to die. Overcome with this knowledge and the preemptive grief that flooded into her, Mary slipped into her room and took the jar of nard she had saved up years to purchase. Unable to contain her own sorrow, the tears streaming down her face, Mary enters into the main room and disrupts this seemingly ordinary meal among friends—disrupts her sister’s carefully thought-out meal, disrupts her brothers’ conversation with Jesus—and she falls at the feet of her teacher, her savior, her God. She struggles with the cork on the jar of burial oil, frustration in her grip as emotion wrenches through her. Finally, she uncorks the jar, and she pours its entirety onto Jesus’ dirty feet. The room falls silent in disbelief and then shock. Mary’s weeping is the only sound, and it burrows into their hearts. The fragrance of that expensive oil fills every crevice of the small room, potent and suffocating, yet somehow intriguing and lovely. The odor pulls at memories of death. Lazarus is reminded of his own death and resurrection, of his own body smelling of this very perfume underneath the stink of his 3-day decaying body. The scent toys with loss and love and family gathered. To the women, the smell evokes the memories of being together with sisters and mothers and daughters and aunties as they weep and massage the oil into the skin of a dead loved one. Mary’s head covering falls away as she bows her body over Jesus’ feet, and her dark, curly, hair tumbles loose. Not having a cloth nearby, she takes her own tumbling loose tendrils and begins wiping the grime from the feet of her God, her tears splashing against the oil and soaking up into her hair. Jesus looks down at her, and He finds her stunning. Her grief is real and aching. Her hair a tangled mess of grime and oil and water. The potency of the scent so close to Him seems to burn. And like the time Mary threw herself on Him when her brother died, this naked show of raw emotion does something to Jesus. For he too will wash the feet of his friends in a few days, inspired by this reckless, ostentatious act. It is captivating. She is captivating. No one dares to speak into the wonder and horror that is filling the room. Except one. One who cannot and will not understand Mary. One who cannot and will not understand Jesus. ”Why was this fragrant oil not sold for 300 denarii and given to the poor?” Oh Judas, Judas, you are worried and distracted by many things. But few things are needed—indeed only one. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken from her. When Jesus speaks, it is not what we would expect Him to say based on his entire ministry. We think Him dismissive of the poor in this moment, but it is not that. His response is about Judas missing the point. It is about Judas disrupting something beautiful and tender and real. It is about Judas attempting to project shame onto Mary. It is about Judas, scandalized by Mary’s opulence and love. It is about a man too prideful to allow a woman’s presence, a woman’s knowing, to contradict what he wants from Jesus. It is about a zealot, angered by the truth that his warrior king was going to die, and it wasn’t going to turn out the way he wanted. Jesus rebukes Judas’ focus on worldly matters, just like he rebuked Martha when she complained of her sister’s disruptive actions. Sometimes, when it all seems insurmountable-- When there seems to be no end to poverty. When it feels like our friends and family just don’t get it. When we believe our God to be dead or impotent or uncaring-- We are called to be Mary. We are called to feel and lament and weep. We are called to worship and drop to our knees at the feet of Jesus in love and trust, even when we do not understand. I was asked by a young woman the other night how I reconcile being a Latin Dancer and a Christian Public Leader. “Does the sensual nature of the dance go against your religion? Don’t Christians believe that we are supposed to be pure?” I know these questions well; and I have been asked these questions accusingly as well as in the manner this woman asked—seeking truth about herself and about God. They are beautiful questions, and they demand thoughtful answers.
I have been a Christian all my life, and I have been a dancer almost as long. When I consider this question of whether or not dance is compatible with Christianity, my answer is unequivocally “yes!” Because I believe in a God who created the Heavens and the Earth, who hovered and brooded and danced above the unformed waters of the deep, who created me from the earth and breathed life into me to animate my being so that I would be capable of dancing (Genesis 1 & 2). I believe in a God of art and creatively, who paints brilliant sunrises and cares for the details of the tiniest blossoms that decorate the field (Matthew 6: 28-29). I believe that I was made in the image of a creative, artistic God, and dance is one of the deepest expressions I know of this divine creativity I am honored to reflect in the world. When I dance, I feel closer to God than perhaps at any other time. Dance transports me to the realm of the Divine where I feel the Spirit and honor that it is in God that I live and move and have my being (Acts 17:28). When I dance with another person, this feeling deepens with the reality of a joint expression of honoring another אָדָם (āḏām, earth-being) that God breathed life into as well. It is the microcosmic stage on which I practice the greatest commandment—Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind…[and] love your neighbor as yourself (Deuteronomy 6:5; Matthew 22:37-39). This commandment is the lens through which we are called to evaluate all in our life as contributing to שָׁלוֹם (shalom)—our wholeness in God—or to sin, our brokenness from God. When I dance, am I honoring the creative and loving work that God put into forming my body and mind and breathing life into it? Am I using this body to express the profound truths of moving prayer, the miracle of life I embody, and a desire to use the gift of dance God gave me as opposed to burying it deep where it cannot bless others (Matthew 25:14-30)? Am I reflecting God’s nature in this dance—the profound, beautiful, creative, expressive, and humble nature of the Divine? When I dance, am I honoring the other with whom I am dancing? Am I fully present to listen to his invitation, respect his boundaries, and care for his body and spirit in the dance the way I wish my own body and spirit to be cared for? Am I recognizing with wonder the interconnectedness of this web of life God created in and through us that allows for this beautiful synergy that is present in few places outside of dance? When I dance, am I honoring myself the same way I honor the other? Am I setting boundaries and communicating my own contributions in a way that acknowledges our equal artistry and equal worthiness in the eyes of God? Am I respecting my body, my mind, and my spirit—not from some human-made construct of purity or asceticism, but from a place of deep knowing of myself and of my relationship with God? When I answer “yes” to these questions, I answer “yes” to dance being compatible with Christianity. Still, I honor and respect that my answers to these questions may be different than yours. I honor and respect that the way these answers show up in my dance may be different from the way they would for you. I honor and respect you as I honor and respect myself because this is what it means to live out the second greatest commandment of God on and off the dance floor. But I want you to know that when this lovely young woman and I were done talking, I witnessed her release shame that had been weighing her down for years; and from this freedom I watched her dance the most beautiful, liberated dance; and in her dance I witnessed God. |
Kaylee Vance LMFT, LMHC
Worship Leader |
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